


Between Battles

by daroh



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Court Sorcerer Merlin, Druids, Gift Giving, Holidays, M/M, Merlin Holidays, Merlin loses his magic, Tournaments, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5588854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having Merlin as court sorcerer wasn't going very well at all, considering the king and his former servant were constantly at each other's throats, and Camelot was no closer to being a magically integrated society. When Arthur decides that hosting a Yuletide feast with the druids should solve at least some of his problems, he inadvertently invites the very trouble Merlin had warned him about, driving the sorcerer further away from him than ever—possibly for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitz_phenom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/gifts).



> Skitz, I loved all of your amazing prompts! Writing this for you has been an exciting challenge, as you deserve the best gift fandom can give! I haven't accomplished that here, but I hope so much that you like what I've written! I've combined two of your prompts, because you are so good at coming up with plots, and I needed plot ideas at every turn (as always!). 
> 
> To that point and many others, I need to thank my virtual village of pre-readers, betas, and Brit-pics (well, one BP)! Your cheerleading, brainstorming, and in-doc triage helped make this worthy, I hope, of this amazing fest! I ignored many fine suggestions; all errors are mine! (The characters aren't.) 
> 
> Thank you so much to the incredible mods as well, who have been paragons of patience and understanding! The fandom loves you and owes you massive debts of gratitude!! <3 Happy Yules, everyone!!
> 
> A/N Feb 2018: Fic edited to correct typos and improve some sentences. I'm sure too many infelicities still remain, but it's still better than it was before!

_Arthur had seen Merlin in the caves. He’d followed him, worried about his scrawny (but brave) manservant facing off against Agravaine and all of Morgana’s forces. And he’d heard his voice sounding calm and sober, no idle threat in the simple, low tones of “No, I don’t think so.”_

_There had been enough power in Merlin’s voice to make Arthur still, postponing his ambush to come to Merlin’s aid. He didn’t know how his servant could combat Agravaine and his men, but Merlin had always had an uncanny knack for survival. Arthur trusted him, against logic, up until he saw the men advance towards the alcove where Merlin was hidden from his view._

_And then—it happened. A familiar sight, but eerily different. He saw a score of men go flying backwards into the damp stone walls of the cave, collapsing unconscious or possibly dead._

Magic _, Arthur thought, and his throat seemed to close around the unspoken word. He heard Agravaine—still alive, then—in hopeful amazement: “You have magic!”_

_“I was born with it,” Merlin had said, quietly, but with pride. Arthur hadn’t understood what that meant, but he knew it sounded important, unimpeachable._

_Lethal._

_He still didn’t really know what it meant, other than that Merlin’s magic was his own, not someone else’s that had been taught to him, like Morgana’s learned from Morgause, or Gaius’s from books and the mentors of his youth._

_Merlin’s magic was Merlin’s, and Arthur’d had to accept that then and there, in those caves, or turn himself against the one man who’d been his ally—his greatest friend—all along. The latter had been unthinkable._

 

 

Four months later

“Merlin,” Arthur yelled, once the council room was otherwise cleared of its members. “Making you the Court Sorcerer was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. _Why_ did I think you were capable of anything like being responsible and showing up to council meetings on time?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Merlin snapped. “Maybe because I’d been showing up on time as your servant for six years before this?”

“ _On time_?” Arthur mocked. “Maybe once or twice when you weren’t at the tavern instead of—”

Arthur cut himself off, shaking his head in disgust. He still hadn’t convinced his brain to revise everything he’d ever known about Merlin.

For now he knew, after all, that Merlin had almost never been in the tavern. He’d been busy sorcelling, and Arthur should be grateful for every time Merlin had been late or a no-show.

This indebtedness and Arthur’s knowledge of his own prior ignorance was made all the more difficult to deal with because the two could never let off steam in the way they used to, and they’d been at each other’s throats for months. All of Arthur’s sparring with Merlin, the teasing and the petty arguments that somehow cleared the air, they’d been based on lies. Merlin wasn’t an idiot; he wasn’t bumbling or incompetent. He was powerful—more powerful than anyone, probably—and clever to the point of duplicitousness.

Arthur didn’t like it, didn’t like any of it, but he didn’t doubt Merlin’s loyalty either. Merlin could be at court, could even serve the court officially with matters of magic, but he couldn’t be Arthur’s idiot servant anymore, and he never had been, it turned out. Nor had he really been Arthur’s friend, and the loss of that bond—even a false one—left Arthur in a permanent state of agitation, as if his clothing was now being overly starched (which, knowing George, was not out of the question).  Merlin didn’t seem to be faring well either with the new arrangement, but Arthur couldn’t fathom his problem with it. After all, he seemed to have gotten everything he ever wanted: magic being made legal, himself free of the need to lie and of being an idiot serving boy to a prat king.

Merlin was still standing opposite Arthur in the council room, glaring. They were the only two left in attendance, Arthur having asked Merlin to stay after the meeting in the hopes that one more try at a tête-à-tête could alleviate some of the tension between them. If nothing else, Arthur had to voice his discontent at Merlin’s lack of respect for the council in showing up late and not adhering to a nobleman’s dress code. He couldn’t be granted special privileges, no matter what his special status was, personally for Arthur or to the court as a whole.

“Right,” Merlin finally said, relieving Arthur of some of his awkwardness. “May I go now, Sire?”

Arthur was answering Merlin’s stare with the coldest one he could conjure. He contemplated his possible responses: He could dismiss Merlin, as was his instinct, just to be free of the argument they were well on their way to having. He could deny him his request, make him sit at the council table and write a list of reasons why council protocols were vital to follow. He could tell him to go forever from the room, if he wanted to leave it so badly.

The thought of Merlin gladly taking Arthur up on the last offer made Arthur think twice about threatening him with it. He wasn’t about to give in to Merlin’s request, though, either.

“No,” he said finally, his voice laden with the weight of his crown. He pressed his lips together to emphasize the denial and the fact that a king need not explain himself. It was his prerogative to keep Merlin there or dismiss him, and he wanted Merlin to bow to his will in some small way. He kept his gaze locked on the man who had been his servant, wishing that alone could shackle Merlin to the spot. 

Judging by the rise of Merlin’s eyebrows and the perfect O of his open mouth, Merlin was surprised by Arthur’s exercise of power, indicating just how long Arthur had been indulging his insolence. “No?” Merlin asked, his pitch rising with incredulity.

“Nnh,” Arthur hummed, his mouth fixed in a scowl.

Merlin crossed his arms and shifted his weight over one hip, exhaling deeply. The air in the room felt thick and stifling, and Arthur wished he had drunk the water offered him earlier. 

“Tell me, Merlin,” he began, schooling his voice into lighter but still commanding tones. “What have you managed to accomplish thus far as Court Sorcerer?”

Merlin’s brows pinched together, his neck crooking slightly. Clearly this wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, and his annoyance at either the query or his not having predicted it was evident. Arthur felt wrong-footed but had already chosen his path.

“What have I managed to accomplish?” Merlin repeated. “Is this some kind of review of my service?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur said. “Answer the question.”

“Have you not been here the whole time?” Merlin leaned forward with real agitation, freeing his arms to gesture his annoyance, prepared to count off his accomplishments on his digits. “I’ve advised you, your council, and your knights on how to protect the kingdom from all kinds of magical threats—curses, enchantments, beasts and creatures, potions. I’ve scouted the borders for hidden sorcerers and rerouted your patrols for better coverage. I’ve written a ledger of spells for novice users, and helped Gaius rebuild his library of books about magic in healing. I’ve been working for hours every day with Geoffrey, of all people, writing the tenets of civil magic law into Camelot’s books. And in my spare time—whatever little of _that_ there is—I’ve personally visited dozens of families who lost loved ones to Uther’s bloody persecution, or been tortured at his hands! Gods know it will take me centuries to visit every person whose life was destroyed by his barbarity!” 

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled, almost trembling with rage, yet hoping his face did not betray him.

Merlin was too exasperated to stop. “Is that enough, Sire? Because I can keep going. I—”

“Merlin—enough! You will not address me in this way!” There were tears fighting their way from behind Arthur’s eyes, but he would not give in to them. He would not, and yet he could not abide Merlin’s impudence.

He broke his stare, using the excuse of a march around the table to wrangle his emotions into submission. He approached Merlin, then slowly raised his head to meet the sorcerer’s gaze again.

His next words were spoken much more quietly than the ones before. 

“You will not speak of my father in that way again,” he said. His voice sounded firm and steady, which lent him some relief. “We agree on the reparations that must be made, but I will not have my father spoken of with such brazen disrespect, particularly not in this room, and by an appointed member of my own council.”

Arthur thought he’d seen a softening in Merlin’s gaze for a moment, but it seemed to vanish as quickly as it came. Merlin raised his chin at the end of Arthur’s speech, making himself a hair taller than the king, but there was something uninterpretable about the gesture. Merlin stood silent, clarifying nothing except his willfulness and lingering anger.

“Is that understood, Merlin?”

Merlin let his eyes survey Arthur’s face at their own pace, not hurrying his own answer. “It is.”

Arthur let time pass, too, in the space between their locked stares. Without breaking his gaze, he invited yet more insubordination, but dreaded it all the same. “But?”

“But,” Merlin said, letting another beat pass. “But maybe then you should unappoint me, because speaking respectfully of _him_ where magic is concerned is disrespectful to _me_ , and _I_ will not have it.” He’d spit the last few words out through gritted teeth, daring Arthur to react.

Arthur stood still as a statue, dumbfounded at Merlin’s audacity. “How dare you,” he finally said, his voice calmer than his words implied. In its echoes, he heard shades of his father, and he wished they both could just unsay their conversation. Still, Arthur forged forward. “I should throw you in the dungeons.”

“Go ahead,” Merlin replied, closing the little remaining space between them.

At this final escalation of the fight, Arthur felt the anger drain out of him somehow, replaced by an unwavering sadness as he stared into eyes so full of rage and hate. It was like Morgana all over again, and he shook at the unintended comparison. They had both bestowed such affection on him before their magic was revealed. He knew now that magic itself wasn’t evil and corrupt, but it had certainly corrupted all of his dearest relationships. With Ygraine, Uther, Morgana, and now, ruining the deepest bond he’d ever forged, with Merlin.

“Why would I want that?” he finally asked, his voice almost affectionate. “Why would you think I want that?”

Merlin’s face lost some of its tension, and he narrowed his gaze into Arthur’s eyes, one and then the other, as their proximity necessitated. 

“Why have you ever wanted it, Sire?” he whispered. It was stupefying.

“To see you in the dungeons? I never have. But sometimes you were put there to teach you a lesson, since nothing else seemed to work.”

“But now you know how easily I could have just broken out of those cells.”

“Yes, but at the risk of your own life.”

Merlin swallowed, slow and deliberate, then took a step back, reclaiming his own space. “That’s right,” he acknowledged. “Because your father would have executed me without thinking twice—without even asking you if you minded your servant being burnt alive in the town square.”

“Merlin—”

“You know it’s true.” 

Arthur sighed, then answered in a tone more firm. “And you know I told you not to speak of him like that. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t speak of him at all.” 

“Fine! I’ll add it to the list,” Merlin hissed. He turned on his heel and began walking towards the large double doors of the chamber.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled. “I have not dismissed you!”

Merlin answered over his shoulder, only slowing his gait for a second. “Yes, you have, Arthur. You just won’t admit it.” 

Arthur watched him go.         

 

&&&

Arthur spent the night and the following morning reflecting on his argument with Merlin. It had accomplished nothing. In fact, it had made things worse. And somehow, in the gargantuan struggle of simply conversing with an appointed member of his own council, he had not been able to broach the topic most troubling him of late about his young kingdom.  

It was with much sadness that he'd noticed that Camelot was loath to accept magic among its citizens. It wasn’t that anyone was being punished for its use; magic was legal, and Arthur had given the patrols special orders to ensure the safety of anyone thought to be a magic user. He didn’t wish to see Uther’s prejudice kept alive in the minds of the people, and he wanted everyone to live peacefully together. The problem was that there didn’t seem to be any more sorcerers or magic use in Camelot than there had been when Uther was alive. Arthur understood the boldness of his lifting of the ban, but not why nothing had changed as a result.

He decided to seek out Gaius, who had for decades served as an unofficial magic advisor to the court, and who also, Arthur wished, might be able to shed some light on what had had been making Merlin so angry these last few months.

He knocked on the physician’s door, feeling nostalgic for the days he would do that in search of his wayward servant.

Merlin had been given his own chambers when he was made Court Sorcerer, but Arthur knew he often preferred staying at Gaius’s anyway. Arthur liked the sentimentality that that showed, although he’d told Merlin the opposite. Now, however, he hoped with every fiber of his being that Merlin was not within.

“Come,” Gaius called through the door, and Arthur took a deep breath and pushed the door open. To his relief, Gaius was alone, standing over his work bench with a pestle in his hand.

“Sire,” he said with some surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Gaius; everything is fine. I was hoping I might speak to you about a matter of court, if you have a moment.”

“Of course.”

The old man offered Arthur a chair, and he sat himself on another nearby. “What might I help you with?”

Arthur looked around the homey chamber, taking in its warm, honeyed tones. The sunlight, suffused through a thin red curtain, fell softly on worn furniture, old leather-bound books, and the faded woolen blankets that covered Gaius’s bed. There were also the glistening blues and purples of the various liquids stored in glasses and vials on the large work table, and the vague halo that seemed to form around Gaius’s white head as he sat waiting for Arthur to begin. This had always felt like the most welcoming place in the castle to Arthur, and he was always glad of an excuse to visit. On this occasion, however, he felt treacherous for being here, in Merlin’s space, going behind Merlin’s back to ask someone else to do Merlin’s job.

He glanced at the closed door above the stairs at the back of the room.

“Is Merlin in?” he asked.

“Merlin? No, Sire. He’s usually with Geoffrey at this time of day. I can have him sent for, if you like. I’m sure he could be of more help to you than I can.”

“No, Gaius, that won’t be necessary. I actually wanted with speak to you, if that’s alright. You see, I’ve been troubled lately by the way the lifting of the ban on magic has affected the kingdom, and I’m hoping you might help me address my concerns.”

“I see,” Gaius said, tentative. He bowed his head as if expecting a blow. The gesture stung as Arthur realized Gaius might be worried that Arthur had changed his mind about it, but he tried not to dwell on the reaction.

“Gaius,” he intoned with reassurance. “More precisely, I’m troubled by the lack of an effect that lifting the ban has had.”

The physician looked up again, his eyebrow regaining its perch of wisdom near his hairline. “Oh?”

“Yes. I know it’s caused a lot of activity within the castle, with the writing of laws and working out of new protections and such, but the lives of the people—those don’t seem to have changed very much at all.”

“And you wanted them to?” Gaius asked in his even instructor’s voice.

“I did. I guess… I guess I was always taught that without strict laws against magic, the whole kingdom would be overrun with sorcerers, and we’d hardly be able to tell reality from delusion within a matter of weeks.”

Gaius chuckled softly at the vision. Arthur let a smile cross his own face as he thought about the ludicrousness of it.

“Clearly, those estimates were a bit off,” Gaius offered politely.

“Clearly,” Arthur agreed. “The thing is, though, that we haven’t even had a trickle of sorcerers coming into the kingdom. No one has set up a shop or so much as offered to light a fire in the hearths of the old or infirm. I thought there would be something. I thought the naysayers would be able to see the good that magic can do and how benign and even helpful it can be. I thought there would at least be a magic night at the tavern, but there hasn’t been so much as that!”

“That’s a very noble concern, Arthur—except perhaps the part about the tavern perks.”

Arthur huffed in easy amusement, feeling a small swell of warmth in his chest, knowing Gaius was proud of how he’d defined the goals of his kingdom and how he was trying to see them through. It was a good feeling after seeing the man made nervous and doubtful at any hint of magic talk. He knew old habits died hard, though, and Gaius had long lived under the rule of Uther’s mercurial personal attitudes towards Gaius’s knowledge of magic.

“Forgive me, Sire,” Gaius continued, “but why aren’t you speaking to Merlin about this? Overseeing the incorporation of magic into Camelot society is exactly what you made him Court Sorcerer for in the first place.”

“Yes, I suppose it was,” Arthur said, dropping his gaze. “I tried speaking to him yesterday, but we never got around to addressing this, I’m afraid.”

“Mmm,” Gaius hummed, nodding his head in sympathy.

Arthur hoped Gaius might say more. “‘Mm’?” He arched his a brow by way of command to continue.

“Well, Merlin has been a bit…temperamental lately. I was hoping he was more reserved with you.”

“Hardly,” Arthur confessed. “Do you know what’s bothering him?”

“No; I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that.”

Arthur had expected that answer, but he still felt disappointment sting in his chest. 

“Right,” he said, leaning back in his chair. Then, abruptly, he stood up, as if movement could help him shake Merlin from his mind and refocus on the matter at hand. “Anyway, as you’ve been Camelot’s authority on magic much longer than Merlin, I was hoping you could offer your thoughts on the subject.”

“Of course, Arthur; you know I’d be happy to help you in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, starting to pace thoughtfully. “I’m wondering why it is you think magic users haven’t come forward.”

“Come forward, Sire? In what way?”

“Come forward as citizens of Camelot, as members of a new age of peace and prosperity.”

“Well, that sounds like a perfectly lovely thing to have happen, Sire, but I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.”

“And I’m asking you why it isn’t,” Arthur said more firmly, ceasing his pacing to stand in front of Gaius.

“Only a few months ago, even knowing a magic user could get someone executed. It’s hardly surprising that people are reluctant to announce themselves as sorcerers. They might fear this is all a trick to create a new registry of magic users, a new list to keep track of those viewed as a threat to the kingdom. It’s what your father would have done.”

Uther’s spectre, again, confronting him in the fears of others.

“I am not my father, Gaius, and you know that.”

“I do, Arthur,” the use of his name having its intended, soothing effect, “and the people do, too, for the most part, but they must see that you’re genuine in your respect for magic, in your belief in the equality of sorcerers in society. All that they know right now is that you’ve lifted the ban but added special magic patrols, and that you’re on rather hostile terms with the one sorcerer you allow inside the castle, and who used to be your constant companion. That isn’t much to build faith on.”

“Hostile terms? What are you talking about?”

“Merlin was your servant for many years, Sire, and everyone knew how you valued him. Since his magic was revealed, you seem...if I may speak frankly…”

“Please, Gaius.”

“You seem to dislike Merlin now that you know he has magic.”

Arthur sighed. “You can’t believe that,” he said, collapsing back into his chair.

Gaius looked at Arthur with compassion, but also, perhaps, uncertainty. “No, I don’t think you dislike Merlin, Sire. I only mean that the servants talk, within and outside the castle, and from what they see of you and the Court Sorcerer—whom you can imagine nearly everyone is interested in hearing about, due to his hidden magic all these years and his new prominent place in court—they can only really report difficulties rather than harmony. The people probably feel that if the king dislikes or distrusts a person who had always been close to him but whose magic was revealed, what could they expect for themselves or their friends? They’d certainly be nervous, and I think you can understand that.”

“I can, but it isn’t right. I don’t despise Merlin, and the servants have no right to conjecture and gossip like that.”

“Be that as it may, they have, Sire, and it is the common understanding of how you’ve reacted to Merlin’s magic.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes, troubled by how widely the damage had spread of his ruined friendship. He stood up again, ready to take action.

“I must set the record straight. My people cannot doubt my honor and my word. Magic is no longer illegal, and I wish to make amends for its treatment during my father’s reign.”

“Give it time, Arthur. The people will see that you mean to keep magic alive in Camelot.”

“There I disagree with you, Gaius. Time is not enough; I have to do something now.” He resumed his pacing, rubbing his jaw as he thought what could be done.

“You know,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking for a while that I should invite the druids to court to formally extend our friendship. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Gaius’s eyes brightened at the suggestion, his back straightening a few degrees. “I do,” he said, sounding not a little surprised, but happily so. “I think that’s a splendid idea.”

“If they agree to come, I’d like to give them some of the artifacts that my father took from them. It would be a show of good faith, as well as the right thing to do, and the people will see that. Won’t they?” 

“I believe they will, Sire,” Gaius said, nodding with a grateful smile. “And if I may make a suggestion…?”

“Of course.”

“If you invite them to come soon, if there is time for such preparation in the next few weeks, they can be here at the Yuletide. Honoring such an event with them would be a grand gesture, Sire, sure to be revered by the druids and accepted with the goodwill with which it is given.” 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “A Yule..?” 

“The Yule, Arthur. The celebration on the longest night of the year, of the light that is to grow everyday thereafter. It’s a celebration of rebirth, and so a perfect opportunity to welcome the birth of a new kingdom with the druids as friends of the crown. The citizens of Camelot will trust to your new laws if the druids vouch for them as well. A Yuletide feast is a wonderful idea. And Merlin will be very happy about this, too, I assure you.”

All of Gaius’s words had quickly convinced Arthur of the merits of the plan, and he decided to set it in motion as soon as he left the physician’s chambers. The thought of earning Merlin’s approval, he had to admit, inspired him in a way that proving his word to the people could not. He craved the return of Merlin’s affection from somewhere deep within himself, from some cavern that had formed behind his navel when Merlin had torn himself from Arthur’s side.

Arthur relished the thought of Merlin being proud, but he was far less sure than Gaius was that Merlin would ever be very pleased with anything Arthur would ever do again. But he would give a thousand feasts if he thought it would reforge their bond.

 

&&&

The castle seemed to spring to life as soon as Arthur left Gaius’s room. The preparations were innumerable for a celebration the size of which Arthur had described to the court, but rather than daunted, the servants all seemed energetized, happy, even, to have such an event to plan for at a time when winter was settling in, casting gloom and early shadows all around.

When word spread, too, that the king was to present the druids with gifts at the Yule feast, it was quickly decided (by some unseen but unanimous body) that everyone deserved a token of love, loyalty, and friendship at such an auspicious time, and hushed discussions of what gifts would be best for whom could be heard in the kitchens and corridors at all hours.

The whole castle took on a warm and festive atmosphere, and Arthur wondered why such happy spirits hadn't been allowed to stir at Camelot before. If anything, the generosity of the season seemed to inspire a better work ethic in everyone, which Uther would have appreciated; the floors were gleaming like never before, the laundry fresher, the food more fragrant. Even the knights seemed to bounce onto the pitch for training as if they lived for sparring and drills in the cold December air.     

Of course, Arthur had briefly worried about how a king might participate in the gift-giving, beyond the gestures of state. Was he to give everyone at court a gift? Just the knights? Just his closest circle of knights and councilors? Was everyone to get the same thing? A sovereign? That seemed inappropriate. If only he could ask Merlin’s advice; he would know what to do.

And what of Merlin? Was he supposed to give his Court Sorcerer a gift? Of late, Merlin deserved nothing so much as a week in the stocks. But on the whole, Merlin still came in very high on Arthur’s list of his most trusted and beloved acquaintances. Figuring, however, that a novelty gift session was not something a king need bother himself with, he let the matter drop from his mind—at least for the moment. 

There was much to do, as letters were written and sent to the various druid encampments throughout the five kingdoms, research was done on druid customs and etiquette, particularly surrounding the Yule, and preparations were made for the lodging of such a large contingent of visitors for a fortnight. It would be the biggest event Arthur had yet hosted as king, and he was glad that it was to be one in celebration of peace, especially with the druids. He wanted to do this for what he owed them, for what he owed his people and all magic users, and most close to his heart, for what he owed Merlin. His old friend, Merlin, who had been happy to be Arthur’s servant until the day he died. 

 

&&&

Arthur figured Merlin had to know about the elaborate plans for the druids’ visit to the court, although he hadn’t spoken to Merlin about them himself. Truth be told, he had been avoiding Merlin for the two weeks since that dreadful argument in the council chamber, and he had a feeling Merlin was doing the same, which was why he was surprised when Merlin burst into Arthur’s chambers one morning shortly after the druid factions had begun to arrive.

“You idiot!” Merlin declared, marching right into Arthur’s chambers as if he were still the king’s servant. George, Merlin’s replacement, looked so affronted he would have fallen over, had his uniform not been so stiffly starched.

“It’s alright, George,” Arthur said from the bed where he lay bare-chested, a silken sheet loosely lying over his hips. “You can go.”

“Should I get the guards, Sire?” George asked, still not moving despite Arthur’s dismissal.

“The guards, George? It’s Merlin. I think we’ll be alright.”

George seemed dubious, with his brows wrinkling in thought, but a stern nod from Arthur and further exaggeration of his sneer told George that he really ought to leave.

The display seemed to bring Merlin back to his old self for a moment. “So long, George!” he called out as the door closed behind the servant.

“George,” Merlin chuckled. “I forgot you get woken up by him every day. How’s the 'brass' talk?”

It was refreshing beyond words, this glimpse of conspiratorial Merlin.

“Brass,” Arthur said, letting a smirk tease at his lips, “is more riveting than I even knew was possible.”

“Really?” Merlin tilted his head in disbelief, his voice a higher pitch than Arthur had heard it in months.

“Yes, Merlin, really. And I’m really not going to throw pillows at you now either,” Arthur warned with a mischievous grin, hurling the first fluffy square across the room, joy spreading inside his chest like the sun itself had just walked in the room to play on his skin.

Arthur was glad to have lingered in bed so long that Merlin could find him just as he was, with bed-tousled hair and wearing nothing but sleeping trousers. He had missed having Merlin steal glances at his chest and torso in the mornings, especially when Merlin’s eyes would lock on the trail of hair that lead beneath the trousers’ fabric. Those approving looks would have Arthur feeling like he could conquer the world, or at least make a worthy leader. The glimpses of Merlin’s honest, eager eyes on him had quickly taught Arthur to adopt the habit of sleeping without a shirt on as long as Merlin was in his employ.

Why he kept it up after Merlin was no longer his servant he wasn’t sure, but if it had been wishful thinking, he’d gotten his wish. The problem was, as the problem was with all granted wishes, that it had a painful twist. While he hadn’t forgotten how good Merlin’s gaze felt on his skin, how much he needed it, he hadn’t realized how precarious its return could be, how vulnerable Arthur would feel in the presence of this man who now could leave at any time and return to his usual state of anger.

This was a most unusual morning that Arthur found Merlin in his chambers at all, and the rarest moment when Merlin seemed to drop his ire and come back to Arthur as he used to be, intimate and open. Even as Merlin was dodging pillows, his wide eyes never seemed to leave Arthur’s body for long, drinking in the sight as if he might never be privy to it again. Arthur didn’t want the moment to end, but of course, he eventually ran out of pillows to throw.

He sunk down, sitting on his feet in the middle of the bed, feeling it was the best position to make Merlin stay longer, and hopefully keep him thinking of playfulness, privacy, and trust instead of whatever it was that Merlin was ready to yell at him about when he’d come in. It also made Arthur feel safer, perched in the center of his canopied bed, surrounded by blankets. 

For a moment, the two men looked at each other, smiles lingering on their faces, but awkwardness growing with reluctant awareness of the situation.

“So,” Arthur began, hoping to set a friendly tone for the discussion. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this happy visit, Merlin? You know if you want your old job back, you only need ask.”

“Oh, very funny, Arthur. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Merlin’s voice was neutral, at least, if not mirthful.

“Well, I would have to find some new position for George, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay,” Arthur lay back on the bed, only to realize there were no pillows to support him. He put his arm behind his head, hoping it looked natural.

“Arthur, I’m serious!” His eyes roamed over Arthur’s prone form. The air felt charged, almost visibly so, if Arthur could believe his eyes, and he realized he wasn’t quite breathing. Finally, Merlin shook his head, dismissing the moment and dissipating its effects.

Arthur let out a breath as he watched Merlin resume his combative stance.

“Look!” Merlin said. “You’ve invited all of these separate druid groups to Camelot without once consulting me about it! I thought I was the ‘Court Sorcerer,' overseeing all matters of magic integration.’”

Arthur slowly untangled his limbs then got out of bed, bidding silent goodbye to the hope of a truce between them. “You are, Merlin." His voice was tinged with more bitterness than he meant to express. “I assumed you knew that, judging by your haughtiness. Or has that been your _real_ secret all these years. Not the magic, but the fact that you’re an insolent arse.”

Merlin scoffed at Arthur from the other side of the bed, then walked to the wardrobe and glanced over the shelves. He selected a tunic, examined it, then put it back in the cupboard to chose another, handing it to Arthur. “If anyone’s an arse here,” he said, “we’ve known from the start that it’s you.”

Arthur couldn’t tell if the retort was meant as benign teasing or an actual insult, but he couldn't stop himself from pushing. “If that’s true, I’m no more so than you are, Merlin. You can’t even deny it! The whole castle has seen it!” Arthur took the shirt and walked behind his dressing screen. “You know what? Let’s put that aside for now. What is your current complaint about the druids? Because I checked with Gaius about this entire celebration, and he thought it was a brilliant idea!”

“Brilliant?” Merlin mocked.

“Yes, Merlin, _brilliant_. He used that exact word. He even seemed to think, for some strange reason, that you would be _happy_ with these festivities. Hell, I even planned them in part because I thought _you_ would like them!”

Arthur stepped out from the dressing screen as Merlin echoed, “You thought I would like it?” His voice was more of a whisper than a renewed accusation.

Arthur lowered his voice to match Merlin's. “Yes, Merlin, I thought you would like it. It’s my first cross-kingdom invitation for the largest feast at Camelot in years—one in celebration of a pagan holiday, I might add—and it’s extended to the druids—all of the druids—as a mark of respect for magic. It’s meant to inaugurate a peaceful union between us for a long time to come. Why wouldn’t you want that?”

When no immediate answer came, Arthur continued dressing, sitting at the table to put on his boots.

Merlin’s eyes were boring holes through the floor. “It’s also a good political move,” he finally said. “You want magic users to declare themselves. Gaius told me. You think this will bring them forward.”

Arthur sighed, closing his eyes and putting his booted feet on the floor. “Merlin, what is your problem with this event? Just speak your mind. You always do anyway.” 

“My problem, Arthur, is that magic-users don’t want to be catalogued, and they shouldn’t have to be. You shouldn’t be baiting them to expose themselves before they’re ready.” He paused, tension visible in the tendons in his neck. When he spoke again, his voice cracked on the final words, “You did it to me and look what’s happened.”

Confusion flooded Arthur’s mind as he tried to fit Merlin’s claim into his own understanding of their history. He felt himself falling, lost. “I did it to you?” he asked, his voice weightless with the loss of ground.

“Yes, you exposed me—”

“I exposed you?”

Arthur recalled the caves, the fighting, the terrible threat of Agravaine’s men, and Merlin cornered, alone. “I came to help you. How was I to know you could protect yourself?”

“Because I always do!”

Merlin had a point. Arthur had reviewed so many seemingly ludicrous escapes in his mind ever since that day, feeling imbecilic at his own happy ignorance, time and time again.

Still, he’d done nothing malicious to Merlin, ever.  “It’s not my fault you were using magic,” he said.

“To save you, though! I was using it to _save_ you, like I always did!”

“Well, it was to kill my uncle, right then, wasn’t it?”

Merlin’s face red with frustration and anger, his breathing more ragged. He was seething. “Yes, to kill your uncle. Think about him for a minute, Arthur, and then tell me why it’s me that you hate.”

Merlin’s words were daggers deep in Arthur’s gut, and his eyes were delivering the same cruel accusations. There was no escape from Merlin’s reckoning, and Arthur hadn’t even known one was due. Whether he was more baffled or hurt, it didn't matter. His answer was the same. “I don’t hate you, Merlin. I could never—”

“We hate each other, Arthur. You just—as usual—would rather pretend everything is fine and honorable.”

Arthur sat as still as he could, trying to maintain at least that vestige of dignity, even while Merlin pointed it out it as his crutch in hard times. He needed it. He needed it or he might be sick, too sick to recover any time soon.

He felt his jaw clench against the pain he was in, now as physical as it was emotional, even though there were no blades slicing him open, just Merlin in his chambers, telling him he hated Arthur.

Just Merlin, hating him for finding him out.

It was hard to summon the ability to speak, but he managed to work a question from his throat. “Is that all, Merlin?”

“N-no,” Merlin said, less bite in his voice now, perhaps because he could see the wounded animal Arthur had become, rather than from any feeling of remorse. “What I wanted to say—initially— was that not all druids want peace with you. There are some who should not have been invited. It’s not safe to have them here, and you should have checked with me before you asked them to come.”

Merlin’s concern seemed so small, so far-fetched, especially in light of the larger problem at the center of his court, right here in his chambers. “I find that hard to believe, Merlin.”

“It’s true. One is the boy, Mordred, the one that you helped escape so many years ago.”

“And why would he wish me ill? You just said that I helped him escape. And now I welcome him at the very same court he had to flee. I’ve kept good on my promise.”

“It doesn’t matter, Arthur. I know he means you harm.”

“How do you know it?” Arthur was comforted by the fact that his voice wasn’t breaking, that his tone maintained its indifference. 

Merlin sighed. “It’s been foretold.”

Arthur gave the briefest nod. What did this matter? It was hardly condemning evidence, and the whole issue seemed secondary, pointless, even. He would never punish a man over a prophecy, and he could hardly bring himself to care about it just now. Celebrating rebirth and light, greeting guests with open arms, much less being vigilant for enemies among the guests—these seemed like the last things Arthur could ask of himself at the moment. 

“If that’s all, Merlin,” he said, his voice finally cracking on the name that used to live on his tongue like honeyed air. He shouldn’t have said it. He would not make the mistake again. “Leave me.”

He hated how he couldn’t hide the sob lodged in his throat, but it didn’t matter now. He knew what had gone wrong, and how irreparable it was. He couldn’t go back and unfind Merlin in that cave. The fact that he was looking to help rather than spy on Merlin was meaningless, too. He had wrenched Merlin’s secret from him, after Merlin had protected it for so long from exposure in Camelot.

He looked up and found Merlin standing where he had been, next to the table a few feet from Arthur. His eyes were fixed on the king, but Arthur found them utterly unreadable. He lacked the energy to even try to look into them. Besides, he had proved himself a terrible judge of what Merlin was thinking. The stare they shared felt weirdly familiar, but Arthur couldn’t bear for it to go on much longer. He glanced to the door, then back at Merlin, and the other man took the hint. His arms fell to his sides, and he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him more gently than Arthur had expected.    

After a few minutes’ silence, Arthur stood up, ready, he thought, to play king and greet his guests. As soon as he saw the array of pillows dashed on the floor, though, he sat down again, letting the water behind his eyes run down his cheeks. It was the only way to be rid of the worst of it. He held his face in his hands and tried to find somewhere calm in his soul, a quiet place to hide his real self while he had to be head of state. Sadly, there was no such place. Merlin was everywhere he looked, inside and out.

And now Merlin was gone.

The magic had ruined everything between them. The irony was, it hadn’t done it in the way anyone would expect. It made Merlin hate Arthur, and not the other way round, although Merlin believed differently.

Magic might be good, but Merlin’s magic was definitely not if it broke the core of Camelot, the king’s very heart.

Arthur couldn’t bear it. He looked at the flung pillows, the covers mussed from the morning’s brief fun, the carefully chosen red tunic he was wearing. He hated how all of it stung. This was just his room and his things, but the sight of them brought sharp, profound pain.

His last tears were hot on his face, and the anger, Arthur realized, was welcome. He deserved to be angry, and he let himself give in to it. His thoughts coalesced into the kind of piercing clarity that only the deepest anger could produce, and he cursed the world. He cursed fate, and he cursed magic, and he cursed Merlin, gods help him. He pulled the shirt off, accidentally tearing the seam, but getting some satisfaction from the small violence of the damage. 

 _I wish his magic would just go away_ , he thought. _It’s ruined everything!_ He stood up, as if to punctuate the plea.

He grabbed a blue tunic from the cupboard, hastily donned it, and stormed out of the room. 

 

&&& 

By the time Arthur descended the courtyard steps, he had removed all trace of his upsetting morning. He was a pillar of beauty and regal aplomb, smiling broadly at the approaching druid party led by Iseldir, the druid chieftain Arthur had met on a few occasions. The soft-spoken man with warm, wavy hair had commanded Arthur's respect and goodwill, even when they were at odds over such serious matters as the Cup of Life—incidentally, the major artifact that Arthur intended to return to the druids on the last day of their visit.

Iseldir was accompanied by a small retinue of his people, including two women who brought young children with them to see the wonders of the town and castle. Arthur smiled at his young guests, hoping to win them over quickly. He knew happy children made their parents feel more at ease, and it was important to him that everyone felt welcome and comfortable at the castle.

“Well, hello, young master and mistress,” he greeted the boy and girl, extending his hand to each of them in turn. “I'm honored by your acceptance of my invitation to Camelot.”

“You're the king?” the girl asked, her already wide eyes becoming globes of wonder on her face.

“I am,” Arthur said, smiling. “But you both can call me Arthur.”

“Really?” the boy said. “Does everyone call you that?”

“No, just my friends,” Arthur clarified. “But I have a feeling you're going to like Camelot, and we'll be fast friends soon.”

“Thank you, King Arthur!” the girl said, curtseying and running back to Iseldir. Arthur laughed and shrugged his shoulders, approaching the larger party now that he'd tried to make the place seem less intimidating.

“Iseldir,” he began, taking the man's forearm in a friendly grasp. “I'm so glad you thought well of my invitation and accepted. The honor of your presence does not escape me, and I am most grateful.”

“No, King Arthur; it is we who are grateful.  Before now, our people only came into Camelot in shackles or in hiding. Today you greet us in the courtyard itself as your friends, and we welcome the chance to repair the ills of the past and enter a new age of friendship and respect between our people and your kingdom.”

“You speak wisely, Iseldir, and we welcome the same. I am sorry for the memories that must be stirred for you on these stones,” Arthur said, feeling he must address the past openly, “but I hope you can come to associate them with graciousness, peace, and friendship. Come, I'll help show you to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Sire. I look forward to the days ahead very much,” Iseldir said, and the doubleness of his meaning was hopeful and clear. 

“Please, call me Arthur. It really is an honor to welcome you here today.”

They walked up the stairs of the castle with Arthur introducing some of his knights to the group, and all exchanging pleasantries about the journey and the anticipation of a momentous visit.


	2. Part Two

Merlin slept fitfully that night, and in the morning he felt more tired than when he’d gone to bed. It wasn’t as if he’d been unable to sleep—in fact, he couldn’t remember waking up once—but he’d felt as if he’d been fighting a fierce battle the whole time, and he woke aching and exhausted. He could swear he even had bruises, but he knew that was absurd.

His violent dreams made sense, though. All he could think about was fighting with Arthur, and their last cruel fight in particular. He had hurled horrible words at Arthur— _horrible_ —but he couldn’t stop himself. His insides were always tearing at themselves, struggling against the sense that nothing was as it should be. He was meant to be Arthur’s own, private councilor, but Arthur had made him serve Camelot. Instead of rejecting him, as Merlin had so long feared, he’d pushed him away from himself personally and exploited him professionally. Merlin had always felt he was nothing without his magic, but now he felt worse than nothing to be valued only for his magic and nothing else. Hadn’t he loved Arthur? Hadn’t he given him everything?

Even in his sleepy state, Merlin felt anger burning behind his eyes as he thought of all he’d lost, all he’d sacrificed for Arthur. Everything he loved about being in Camelot was gone: his relative freedom as a peasant, able to sneak off whenever he needed to; the home he’d built with Gaius, who’d welcomed him like a son from the moment of his arrival; his apprenticeship in medicine, which, despite not coming easily to him, was a practical, noble, and honorable trade to learn, and which gave Gaius the chance to impart even more of his vast knowledge to Merlin; the comforts of his well-worn scarves and old clothes; and, above all, the fact of always being with Arthur, in all that Arthur did and said and thought and felt. Being privy to all of him in ways no one else was.

Arthur robbed Merlin’s life of all of those essentials, changed his title, his clothes, his quarters, his way of relating with his old friends, even the knights and Gwen, who was still a servant, albeit a highly respected one. He felt every new accoutrement was some new shame, some punishment for having lied to Arthur, or for having magic at all, that made him hot with shame. Everything Arthur did seemed calculated to make Merlin miserable and more uncomfortable in his own skin than he’d ever been, and it worked all too well.

He knew he was indebted to Arthur for not executing him or exiling him, but he didn’t feel very indebted, or even very grateful. Everything felt a punishment, a mockery of what Arthur seemed to think Merlin thought he was all along. And it hurt. It hurt enough to turn almost all of Merlin’s love for Arthur into hate. Hate was in danger of ruling him, and it made him keep away from even Gaius sometimes, like last night when he decided to stay in his own sterile chambers just to keep himself from yelling undeservedly at the old physician.

Strangely, Merlin had felt more Arthur’s equal when he’d been a peasant, Arthur’s personal servant. They were inseparable by occupation, but it hadn’t felt like that. Now, Merlin was on the periphery of Arthur’s life, a magical pet that he kept tethered to the court instead of the king.

Merlin sat up in his chambers—the new ones, designated for a council member, complete with a comfortable bed, nicer even than the knights got, and a window that looked out over the courtyard so that he could see anyone approaching—and realized his head felt heavy. He inhaled deeply and got up, his thick woolen socks bulging at the ankles where his trousers were still tucked into them to shield against the cold. He hurried over to the water basin, needing to splash his face at least in an attempt to shake off his dreams and their effects. The shock of cold water was painful but in just the way he’d needed it to be, and he kept rinsing his face until it adjusted to the temperature, and the water lost its appeal.

Merlin knew he had much to do if he was to help host the druids who had arrived over the last day or two. He had been so focused on his troubles with Arthur that he hadn’t been as vigilant as he should have been about their comings and goings.  He knew that as much as he resented everything Arthur had done, he still wanted to protect him, and that meant he had to start investigating just who had shown up for this gathering and what they intended.

He readied in what had become his usual, irritable way, splashing water on his face, putting on his trousers, then, for this day and the two weeks that would follow, one of the embroidered shirts with tailored jacket that Arthur insisted he wear in his official capacity. After all, he would be receiving magical guests on behalf of Camelot as its magical safeguard.

 

&&&

As he hurried down the stairs, he smelled unfamiliar herbs simmering in the kitchens, and he realized he didn’t know much about druid meals or cooking. Arthur must have had it looked into, though, which only annoyed Merlin further, knowing he should have thought of it himself.

He was heading to Gaius’s chambers to see what Gaius knew about the guests and if he’d received any, but on his way he bumped into Aglain, a druid leader, tall and strong, who walked with the nobility of a king but the humility of a man wizened beyond his years. Merlin felt awe upon seeing him, and was struck by shame for the bitterness inside himself. He had never feared judgment by the druids before, but he realized now that he hoped they stayed out of his mind this time. Perhaps they had already sensed his newfound volatility, and that was why no one had greeted him telepathically yet. On the other hand, it could just be that they were Arthur’s guests, and did not need to engage in any private correspondence with "Emrys" on this visit.

He hoped it was the latter.

“Aglain,” he said, bowing slightly at the druid, “it’s a pleasure to see you here. Please forgive my not greeting you when you arrived.”

Aglain nodded in return. He did not speak, though, and Merlin felt unnerved, but he knew the circumstances were awkward.

“May I ask how your journey was? Is there anything you need while you’re here?”

“The journey was good, Court Sorcerer, and we have been welcomed very kindly by your king and his people.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Merlin said, bristling at the use of his title instead of being called Emrys—or at least Merlin—by a druid. Perhaps Aglain was mistrustful of him for having brought Morgana back to Camelot from his camp, driving her to darker influences. He shuddered at the memory and his own guilt.

“I’m sorry I have to be going,” he added, hoping and failing to make a graceful exit. “I look forward to seeing you over the next few days.”

Aglain nodded again and continued his walk down the corridor. Merlin decided Gaius could wait, and he really out to find out exactly who was here and how they seemed from someone with a keen eye at the center of things.

“Gwen!” he called, finding her folding linens in the servants’ hall.

“Merlin—what is it?” she asked, pausing in her work. “I expected you to be up to your neck in hosting duties by now.”

“I suppose I should be,” he said, his hand scratching behind one ear. “I’ve been, erm… I guess I’ve got a late start. I was wondering if you could catch me up? Did you have a chance to see who’s here, get a sense of them?”

“You’re asking me that? You really are slacking on your duties!” Gwen’s smile belied the criticism of her words, but she was right.

“I have not!” Merlin answered back, teasing her with his own smile. “I’m just testing you to see how well you keep track of the guests. You have a lot of servants’ schedules to juggle with so many people coming.”

“Nice try,” Gwen said, placing the last folded sheet onto the fluffy pile of clean bedlinens. “But I suppose I’ll tell you what I know anyway.” She took another basket of washing from the floor and placed it on the table, then began to sort through it. Merlin reached in and grabbed a long cloth that seemed to have no end. His brows furrowed as he pulled more and more fabric out of the bin.

“Is this a new magic trick, Gwen?”

Gwen huffed a laugh. “Hardly, Merlin, but it doesn’t take much to befuddle you these days.”

He paused in his movements and looked at her, his lips parted slightly in question.

“It’s a table-runner, Merlin. We have to set quite a few tables in the banquet hall every evening, so we’ve been cleaning these older ones that have been in storage.”

“Ah,” he said, Gwen’s mocking tone bringing an old blush to his cheeks.

She took the other end of the cloth from the basket and they folded it together, making sure the lines were neat and even. They worked through two baskets of table linens like that, as Merlin found the work soothing, and Gwen seemed content to let him have such a comfort, at least for as long as it was available.

When there was no more washing left to fold, she looked at him pityingly, tilting her head and offering a gentle smile. “Alright, Merlin. You’ve helped me with my job; let me help you with yours.”

“Thanks, Gwen,” Merlin said, feeling more at ease than he had all morning. “Do you know who’s here? Who has yet to arrive?”

“Iseldir is here with his family and quite a few others. I think he leads the largest druid community in the five kingdoms, and Arthur has met him a few times before. Arthur greeted them when they arrived, and it seemed to go quite well.”

“Yes, Iseldir is a good man. All in his camp have been kind to us, every time we met with them. I’m glad they’re here.”

Gwen studied Merlin’s face as he spoke, and he realized she was waiting for him to finish his thoughts before continuing. He nodded to her gently, prepared for less auspicious news.

“Oh—Mordred is here. He arrived the day before. He’s the druid boy that—”

“Yes, I know who he is,” Merlin hissed without meaning to, and he turned away from her.  

He realized she didn’t know who Mordred was—not who he really was—who the dragon said he’d be.

“I’m sorry, Gwen,” he said, turning to her with widened eyes for her to see the genuineness of his apology.

“It’s alright, Merlin. I congratulate you on being civil for the last ten minutes, anyway. It’s been nice.”

He lowered his eyes, ashamed, again, but nodded in agreement at her words, still looking at the floor. “I know. I’m insufferable. Thanks for still being my friend.”

“Always, Merlin.”

He felt Gwen’s fingers move across his palm, taking his hand and squeezing it between her own. He looked up to see the kind eyes that were always there for him, as she’d said, and he was grateful for her goodness, even though he felt undeserving of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, a little stupidly.

“It’s alright, Merlin. Now tell me—if you want to—what is the problem with Mordred? We went to so much trouble to save his life all those years ago—”

“I know, I know. It’s just that…” He pulled his hand from Gwen’s, trying to gesture his meaning, then settled his hands on his hips, frustrated. “It’s just that I know what fate holds in store for him—for him and Arthur—and I can’t let him be here. Arthur refuses to banish someone based on a prophecy, though, and he didn’t check with me before inviting him to this Yuletide. I need to keep an eye on him, but I’ve already failed in not even knowing he was here!”

“Merlin, calm down.” Gwen’s voice was commanding, its pitch lower, but still somehow warm with concern. Merlin envied that in her, but was also grateful for it. She continued. “I have to say, I agree with Arthur on this one. Rest assured, there have been servants assigned to Mordred’s troupe since they got here, and those servants haven’t reported anything suspicious about Mordred or his people, Kara and Alvarr.”

“Which servants are seeing to them?”

“Gilli and Sefa,” Gwen answered.

Merlin bristled at the servants’ names. Sefa was fine, but Merlin knew Gilli had magic—or had access to it, at least, through an inherited ring that acted as a conduit—but he had promised Merlin never to use it, as he had found himself to be easily corrupted by the power it let him wield.

Merlin decided he’d have to speak to Gilli, probably a few times. He nodded, more at himself than Gwen.

“Alright,” he said. “And I ran into Aglain on my way here. Is there anyone else?”

“Just a few older friends of Gaius's.”

“Of course. He used to know so many sorcerers.”

“It must be nice for him—to reunite with old friends, I mean,” Gwen said, her voice lighter.

Merlin was biting a nail, still thinking over the Mordred problem. “Hmm?”

“Gaius. It must be nice for him to see old friends, people he hasn’t talked with since the Purge.” Her eyebrows rose, encouraging Merlin to follow the conversation.

“Yes, right,” he replied, then sighed. “I guess I’d better start seeing some of them myself.”

“Better late than never,” Gwen said with a smile. She moved back toward her work area, ready to resume her own duties.

“Thanks, Gwen,” Merlin replied. He could hear in his own voice a tone from happier days. He should really come see Gwen more often, he thought, and he decided to make it a priority. He was already out the door when he realized he wanted to steal one more fortifying smile from her.

He stepped back into the doorway, leaning in. “Hey, Gwen?” he said, a smile wider than he’d worn all week spread across his face.

She turned, and a look of happy surprise lighted on her face instantly. “Yes?”

“Wish me luck!”

He bolted before she could actually say anything, but he hadn’t really needed to hear it. The key was in the asking, and though he still felt wrong inside his clothes and inside the castle, he felt more himself than he had in a while.

 

&&&

That afternoon, Merlin made the rounds of the castle, hoping to speak to all of the druids before that night’s dinner. He’d succeeded in meeting with everyone, however briefly, with the annoying exception of Mordred and his friends. The omission made him uncomfortable.  It seemed intentional on their part, as if they were avoiding him, but he could never prove that that was the case, and he certainly had no motive to offer at this early stage of their visit, other than an old prophecy and a sense of dread gnawing deep beneath his ribs.

He’d also spoken with both Gaius and GIlli, neither of whom reported anything odd. Gilli seemed as loyal and kind as he had been since he’d put away his magical ring, and Merlin felt that, for the moment at least, he wasn’t under the influence of anyone else.

Gaius had seemed concerned, as usual, about Merlin’s irritability, but not at all about the druids. He’d said he even liked Mordred when he’d met him earlier that day, that he’d grown into a nice young man.

_“Have you forgotten what the dragon said?” Merlin had asked, flabbergasted that even Gaius wasn’t sympathetic to his concerns._

_“No,” the physician responded, his voice calm but a little reproachful. “But I refuse to judge the young man based on a prophecy. He must be allowed to make his own decisions, Merlin, and treating him as an enemy from the start will only make him one.”_

_Merlin nodded reluctantly. “Fulfilling the prophecy.”_

_“Exactly.”_

Gaius’d had a point, but Merlin still couldn’t shake all of his misgivings. He knew Mordred would somehow be the cause of Arthur’s death, and that more than once Merlin had let Kilgharrah down by letting Mordred live.  

He had to refresh himself before the welcoming banquet that evening, so he went to his chambers to put on his yet more formal attire. Dressing was its own form of ridicule. The white embroidered tunic, complete with irritating high collar, made him feel even more the king’s fool. Putting the deep green jacket on over it should have helped, but he wore the item so seldom that it was stiff and awkward around his shoulders. He pulled at the hem in several directions, marveling at his own unease. The outfit made him look uncomfortable, too, with its starched angles and wrinkled velvet. His appearance he could at least manipulate.

“ _Smeðe_ ,” he whispered, waving his hand over the jacket.

To Merlin’s shock, nothing happened. No magic coursed from him to the jacket, and the fabric did not become smooth and soft.  

“ _Smeðe, aliese_ ,” he tried again, his whisper more urgent and higher pitched than before. Still, his magic did not respond.

 _Don’t panic. Don’t panic,_ he thought. _You’re not yourself. You’re less yourself than ever. Focus, focus._

He tried to take a deep breath, but it stuttered its way down his airways unsatisfactorily. He had to stay calm. He remembered the exercise he took the novices through when magic made them too nervous to think clearly.

He closed his eyes and straightened his posture, imagining a string pulling gently at the top of his head. He directed his thoughts from his crown to his temples and neck, down his shoulders and arms, along the sinewy lines of his back, around his tightened torso and lower to his gut. He thought his way over his buttocks and hips, around the tops of his thighs, past his knees, and through the meat of his calves, around his ankles, his heels, the arches of his feet, and out to each toe individually.

He took a deep, controlled breath that filled his lungs, then opened his eyes slowly as he exhaled.  

He felt more centered than he had been a moment before, but he knew the effect would be fleeting. He continued his exercise, visualizing his magic as a pulsing glow in the center of his chest. It kept everything warm and safe and made him _Merlin_.

He looked around the room. There was an unlit candle on the table, and his decision was instantaneous. He stared at the object, then narrowed his eyes to focus on just the wick. When it was all he saw, he raised his right arm with deliberate intent.  

He stood still for a moment, not saying the word. He didn’t want to. If the spell didn’t work—this simple, instinctual, tiny little spell—he’d have to fathom himself being without magic, and he couldn’t bear it.  

He had to focus. He had to want nothing in the world but to light that candle. And he had to believe he could do it.

Of course he could do it. He wasn’t just Merlin, he was _Emrys—_ at least that’s what the druids thought.

“ _Léoht_ ,” he finally said, raising his chin, daring the candle to light at his command.

It didn’t, but he didn’t drop his hand, as if he and the candle were in a standoff, and he was determined to emerge the winner. He said the word three more times, willing the spell to work out of anger, then pity, then necessity. None of them put so much as a spark or a flicker to the wick. An outstretched arm wasn’t going to change that, and Merlin finally gave up.  

As soon as his hand dropped to his side, he felt the panic surge from deep in his gut up to the shallowest part of his chest and throat. He was going to be sick. He was going to spew sick all over his official sorcerer’s outfit, but he supposed that would have the benefit of hiding the wrinkles. And maybe the fact that he wasn’t so sure he was a sorcerer right now.

That couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Options. There were options. He could fix this. He’d discover what it was that stole his magic, or weakened it, or turned it off.  He sprang to action, rummaging through his wardrobe and tearing off the bedclothes and searching the undersides of chairs and tables. He found nothing out of the ordinary, though—no dripping mandrake roots or gaudy stones lodged in suspicious jewelry. Everything was his own, or the official “court sorcerer’s,” at any rate.

While on his hands and knees, he scoffed at the thought of his role, at being moments away from greeting a castle full of druids and not even having his magic. That had been the only thing credentialing him for his high office in Arthur’s court. At this moment, he was a thorough imposter, not just to the rank and politicking of it all.

This was awful. Where was Gaius?

As if on command, there was a knock at the door. It seemed too good to be true, so Merlin should have realized it was.

“Gaius?” he called out. He knew he was due at the dinner, and Gaius would want to help him avoid being egregiously late.

Instead, when the door opened, a young servant stepped inside, his eyes widening at the disheveled state of the room.

“Oh, I…” Merlin began, looking around the room and rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just looking for something.”

The servant’s gaze wandered around the chambers, then fell to the floor in front of him. Merlin was still kneeling by the unmade bed. “My lord,” the boy said, ignoring the topic and getting straight to his mission. “The king requests your presence at the welcoming banquet.”

“Of course,” Merlin said, getting to his feet and trying to sound untroubled. “I’ll be along in just a minute.”

The servant didn’t move, though, and instead stayed awkwardly in the doorway.

Merlin sighed. “Is there something else?”

The thin boy swallowed, then said, “The king instructed me to escort you.” Merlin’s head snapped to attention at the audacious command of the king’s. Merlin required no escort to ensure his presence.

The boy looked worried by Merlin’s anger and offered an explanation: “In case you had any questions about the guests, my lord.”

Merlin was annoyed more than ever at his own delinquency in seeing to the druids. All he had to do was see them all into the castle, size them up, but he hadn’t done as much as that, so busy was he fighting and sulking and hiding from Arthur. And now it was costing him—and probably both of them. After all, Merlin was never the real target. It was always the Once and Future King.

It had to be one of the druids behind his predicament, and in a way he’d brought this upon himself. More than that, he now had to face a room full of them—along with Arthur and the whole court—before he could look into it further, or even talk to Gaius about it. He walked in silence with the boy through the corridors until they reached the feast.

 

&&&

Stepping into the banquet hall, Merlin felt more unlike himself than ever, and lonelier, too. He had been miserable over the last few months, but not diminished, as he was now. This weakened state, this partial presentation of himself to so many people, made him feel all the more vulnerable and exposed. He wished he could excuse himself and withdraw to Gaius’s chambers, his own old sanctuary. He knew he had to keep going, though, and to reverse the damage he’d allowed to be done. He had to keep anyone from knowing what had happened to him while he figured out who did it, and how, and for what purpose. He supposed stripping him of his magic was part of a plan of Mordred’s to get to Arthur, but he couldn’t think why such a step would be necessary. Arthur was often without Merlin these days, and away from any immediate protection he could offer.   

As he stood surveying the assembly, he was struck by the familiarity of it, even if he felt out of place. The scene was normal in that everyone was where they usually were, the servants edging the room, stepping in here and there to place an item on one of the tables or refresh a water glass, the knights chatting together, the councilors likewise, and Arthur at the head of it all, looking regal and lovely, happy and at ease, but alert to the room as a whole, not just Iseldir, with whom he was talking.

Iseldir, of course, was part of what was different. The hall was filled with a number of people like him in druid garb, finely woven cloaks that somehow bespoke humility in their graceful lines and craftsmanship. Druid men and women were mingling with knights and ladies of the court, as well as with the servants, though the latter were trying to maintain their stations.

This unique gathering, Merlin realized, was a sight that should fill him with joy. It was a triumph, and exactly the kind of thing he and Arthur had worked all those years struggling with Uther and fighting Morgana to achieve. It had put their own relationship to the test too many times—one too many, certainly—but Merlin always thought it would be worth it, and that more than that, he’d always be right by Arthur’s side, there to bask in Arthur’s success, proud of his leadership and kindness. Here before him was proof of that success, of Arthur’s worth. Magically gifted communities of the Old Religion were the king’s guests, dining with him in his own halls, and glad of his company. No one feared the dungeons or a beheading. It was a wondrous union, just as Arthur had promised. But Merlin was watching it from the doorway, tempted to walk away, even, from this twisted version of his realized dream.

“Merlin,” Arthur called out from across the room. “Come,” he said, gesturing for him to join himself and Iseldir at the head of the table.

Arthur’s smile was polite, but Merlin felt the coldness in it. He hated how much he wanted to protect Arthur, how much he was sorry to be failing him, how much resentment had grown between them. Niceties would have to work for the night—for the week even, while the druids were here. After that, he didn’t want to think about what would happen. Hopefully, he would at least have his magic back.

He walked across the room, making his way to Arthur, nodding to Gwaine and a few others as he tried to survey those present. There were many faces to take in, and Merlin was most relieved to see Gaius’s. He tried to find Mordred, but the task was too difficult, as he had likely grown much since they’d last met, and Merlin was aware of Arthur’s eyes following his progress towards the table. There were too many things to think about to be a good detective at the moment.

He took his place next to the king and bowed slightly in greeting, adding a formal greeting of “Sire” to the gesture. When he stood up, Arthur’s eyes were narrowed on him in question, but he let it pass.

“Merlin,” he said, nodding his head. “Good of you to join us. I was just telling Iseldir about the progress you’ve been making in fostering the growth of the good uses of magic in Camelot.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I’m sure you exaggerate.” Merlin bowed to the druid leader, the one who had, unbeknownst to Arthur, helped Merlin several times with advice to keep them from harm or aid them on a quest. He had great reverence and gratitude for Iseldir, and he’d never had a chance to properly express that. He was always first and foremost on Arthur’s side, and Arthur had never been knowingly aligned with the druids. “Iseldir,” he said. “It’s an honor to serve you and your family at court.”

Iseldir held Merlin’s gaze for a moment but did not speak. It did not take long for Merlin to realize what he was missing. It was likely Iseldir was speaking to him in his mind right now, but Merlin lacked the ability to hear him. Whatever it was he said, Iseldir seemed pleased with the new look of shock on Merlin’s face, and smiled warmly in return.

“My Lord Merlin,” he said. “The honor is all ours. It will be a special privilege indeed to dine with you tonight and spend the week here in your presence.”

“Oh, I fear Arthur has been too generous with his compliments about me. You’ll be much better served in talks with him and the other council members.” Iseldir looked disappointed, so Merlin added, “Of course, I’m happy to help however I can.”

A small smile pulled gently at the corners of Iseldir’s mouth. “On the contrary,” he said, “we know well of the greatness of your deeds. I and my friends will be glad of whatever time you have available to spend with us. We have much we’d like to show you, and much we hope you might share with us as well.”

Merlin swallowed uncomfortably, his throat dry. “Of course,” he said, glancing at Arthur to gauge his reaction. Arthur looked regal and calm, but Merlin could tell he was watching him closely. He knew he was supposed to be more forthcoming with the guests, but he had nothing to offer at this point except accusations, confessions, and apologies, and he was not about to give voice to any of these. He recoiled under Arthur’s gaze, hoping the king would lead them out of this conversation. He had no reason to help Merlin, but he also would want to minimize the druids’ knowledge of the strife between king and sorcerer.  

“Shall we open the celebrations, then?” Arthur said, looking first to Merlin and then to Iseldir. He smiled and looked as though he might clap a hand on each of their shoulders, but instead gestured for the attention of the crowd. The congregation quieted, and he began his welcoming speech. Merlin breathed a sigh of relief, hoping for once that ceremonial matters would take up the rest of the evening and spare him from further discussion.  

“It is with great pleasure,” Arthur’s voice boomed, “that I welcome our druid friends, Iseldir, Aglain, Alvarr, and their friends and families to Camelot. I have long hoped for peace between our peoples, and your presence here today, your acceptance of our most heartfelt invitation to Camelot’s first Yuletide celebration, bodes well for a long and prosperous friendship between us.

“In inviting you to be my guests at the castle, I hope not only to redress the wrongs of the past and forge a bright and peaceful future, but to show you our commitment to restoring magic to the land, to protecting the rights of those who practice magic with care, and to fostering a kingdom in which magic can flourish. For now, let me bid you welcome to the castle, and thank you for your faith in our efforts here together. If you would raise your glasses?”

Arthur bore his wine-filled chalice high in the air, waiting for everyone else to follow suit. Most did immediately, but as Merlin had come in late, he was without a drink. Arthur gestured with his chin towards the table, where Merlin noticed a full cup in front of his place-setting. He took up the cup and raised it high, suddenly aware that his jacket was rising absurdly as well. The stiff velvet brushed at his ear, and he hoped the toast would not be prolonged. Again, whether he meant to be or not, Arthur was merciful.

“To peace, friendship, and the future of Albion!”

There were cheers around the room at the king’s toast, and everyone drank to the wise words, including Merlin, though his gulp of watered wine was more for the sake of his nerves than any speech of Arthur’s. He was too worried about how he was going to get through this ordeal.

He already didn’t know what Iseldir had said to him privately. It was very likely that other druids had tried communicating with him that way as well. There were so many of them in the castle, and he knew how fond they were of such an address, especially to “Emrys.” He was glad no one had called him that aloud, at least. Arthur didn’t know the full meaning of that designation, but Merlin knew “Emrys” was who the druids sought and revered, not Merlin, and he wasn’t sure he was Emrys anymore—not as long as he didn’t have his magic. And who knew how long he’d been without it? He couldn’t remember any spells he’d done in days.    

When they sat down to eat, he hoped Arthur would maintain his conversation with Iseldir to his left, but the latter was engaged in discussion with Alvarr. Arthur seemed uncomfortable, awkwardly arranging the food on his plate and looking alternately at that and the room at large. Merlin knew it was bad form for them to be seen not speaking, especially after Merlin had made a late entrance, but he could hardly bring himself to eat, much less attempt light conversation with Arthur.

Once again, Arthur seemed willing to carry Merlin through the meal. “Thank you for coming,” Arthur said, decidedly not looking at Merlin. “I know you’re very busy, and more so than usual at the moment.”

It was Merlin’s instinct to respond cruelly—it had become routine, almost—but he didn’t want to be cruel. He knew it was unfair. It was probably unfair to say nothing at all, too, but that was what he did.

“I wonder if you’ve had a chance to meet personally with any of the guests,” Arthur said, this time glancing at Merlin, probably to see if he was even listening.

Merlin nodded, then dug around on his plate with his fork, much as Arthur had been doing. “I did. Most of them.” He tried to keep his voice low and flat, devoid of emotion.

“I see.” Arthur took a small sip of his wine, then smiled at someone across the room. Merlin didn’t look to see who it was. “That’s good. Who did you not greet?”

“M-Mordred,” Merlin said, knowing the name was probably the worst one to bring up, but the only one Merlin had interest in hearing about. Besides, his answer was the truth.

“I figured as much,” Arthur said. “I had taken him and his friends riding with me and the knights, and we were away most of the day.”

Merlin shot a look of anger at Arthur and unfortunately caught Iseldir’s attention with his abrupt movement. He calmed his face and offered a smile to assure him there was no problem. He looked back at Arthur, though, and let his eyes do his talking. They knew each other so well—or had known—he wouldn’t have to explain to Arthur the stupidity of such a plan, leaving the castle with the one person who was a known threat to the king.

Arthur didn’t flinch at Merlin’s accusing gaze. “It was a good outing, Merlin. Leon, Gwaine, Elyan and Percival enjoyed the ride as well. It offered me the chance to speak to Mordred, to see what he remembered from when we helped him. It turns out he remembers all of it, and he seems enamored of everything to do with Camelot.” Arthur was genuinely smiling at this point, to Merlin’s horror. “He’s quite charming, actually. I think you’ll like him.”

 _Why would I like him?_ Merlin wanted to scream. _He’s already worked his way beneath your defenses, you supercilious prat! Why must you be kind even to_ him _and never me?_

Iseldir turned to look at them again, and Merlin feared his thoughts were readable to the present company. How could he not be keeping his mental guard up in such circumstances? _Oh, well_ , he figured. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t the only one to hear of the prophecy, was he? Often it seemed that Iseldir knew more than him about such things anyway.

Merlin sighed at what a crap magical guard to the court he was. His own mind was an open book. Arthur was probably shielding his thoughts better.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he finally answered, wiping his mouth of nothing in particular. He sat back in his chair, hoping to scan the crowd and at least locate Gaius.

“We’ll see. I asked him to join us when he’s finished dining with the knights. I figured you’d be eager for a reintroduction, as court sorcerer.”

Merlin’s skin bristled at the title, at Arthur’s reminder of his proper role. If he had his magic, he would be eager to face off with this enemy—the boy he had seen fell a squad of knights with a single scream—but without it, he wasn’t sure what he could do. There was no time to think on it, anyway, as Arthur stood and waved to Gwaine and the knights, and Merlin saw a dark-haired young man smiling broadly at the recognition. He all but bounced out of his seat and came running to the king’s side. A servant was bringing another chair to the king’s table for Mordred.  

“Mordred,” Arthur said, extending his arm for a friendly shake. “I trust you remember Merlin from when you were last at the castle?”

Merlin stood up to greet him. His eyes were a confounding blue, not light and lovely like Arthur’s. His mop of dark hair over his smooth, fair face had a boyish charm, but Merlin was not going to be taken in by it, especially when Mordred seemed to be boring holes into Merlin’s soul with the look he had fixed him with. His smile was almost unnatural, but that could have been from the discomfort of having the king of Camelot summon you to his side to make a display of courtly greetings.

“I would never forget him, Sire,” Mordred said. He turned to Merlin, offering his arm as Arthur had done to him. Was he suggesting it was his place to greet Merlin and not vice versa? “I had always hoped I’d see you again,” he said.

Merlin wondered what else he might be saying telepathically, if anything. It could be something to test that Merlin really had lost his magic. He was determined to keep his own mind blank and his expression as well. He  did not take Mordred’s hand in greeting.

“And here you are, with us at Camelot,” Arthur butted in. “We’re so glad to have you. Please have a seat.”

“My lord, if I may,” Mordred began, a puppy-ish look on his face as he addressed Arthur. “As you have been so generous as to invite us here, we would like to do something in return for you.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, his face brightening in anticipation of a pleasant proposal. “What did you have in mind?”

“We know your majesty is fond of tournaments—”

“I am indeed. They’re a fine custom in Camelot. They honor the knights and all who participate.”  

“Right,” Mordred agreed, encouraged by the king’s words. “Exactly. We were thinking that you might like a magical tournament, since most of us are better at magic than fighting.”

Arthur’s smile faded, but his head tilted with interest. “You’ll have to tell me how that would work,” he said.

“No,” Merlin cut in sharply. It was awkward, he knew, the minute he said it. His whole body tensed, ready for opposition.

Arthur waved a hand gently towards Merlin, indicating he should calm down. “Forgive me, Mordred. This is the kind of thing you should be discussing with my court sorcerer. Merlin? You were saying?”

He looked at Merlin, one eyebrow arched.

Merlin knew he was expected to behave properly. He wouldn’t yell, but he would definitely state every reason he could think of—and there were many—why a magical tournament planned by Mordred was a terrible idea.

“Sire,” he began, ignoring Mordred entirely. “Tournaments are dangerous, even with blunted weapons. We have no precedent for this, and no means of measuring and containing anyone’s magic and the harm they might do.”

“Sire,” Mordred cut in, “no one here wishes anyone harm!  You must believe that!  Besides, your own court sorcerer is more powerful than any druid, and he could stop any spell he thought posed a threat.”

“Is that right, Merlin? Could you protect the people in such a way? I believe no one here would mean harm to anyone else, but your protection would be welcome security.”

“Arthur, I—”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, a reproach in his exaggerated intonation.

“Sire,” Merlin corrected himself, though he knew that was not what angered the king. “I might be able to stop a spell, but it’s too risky. Everything about it is unknown!  This kind of thing has to be planned for months, with rules and tests and categories. You can’t just announce one today and have it tomorrow!”

“I can if I see no problem with it,” Arthur corrected again. His voice was smooth and calm, his posture open as ever. The only thing telling Merlin that Arthur was agitated was the tension in his shoulders that always made a certain vein on his neck visible.

“That’s not my only concern,” Merlin said, needing to convince Arthur to deny Mordred’s request. He couldn’t tell him he had no magic. “Magic, as Gaius and I have explained many times, is not a game. It’s not to be used for silly entertainments. The druids believe that more than anyone. I think Mordred would find they’d be offended at the very notion, if he had cared to ask everyone here about it before proposing it.”

Iseldir stood up at that point, having been following the discussion. “My lord Merlin, Mordred has talked to the leaders of the various communities.”

Mordred smiled proudly at Arthur, as if waiting for a compliment on his thoroughness. Instead, Arthur turned to Merlin and nodded with his eyebrows raised, clearly impressed with the foresight.

“While you are right that we do not condone the frivolous use of magic, particularly for the entertainment of strangers, we believe that as Arthur has changed so many laws of Camelot life and custom to benefit and welcome us, we can compromise on this issue this week and offer him the kind of gratitude he is used to receiving.”

“But, Iseldir,” Merlin started. No other words followed, but his hands continued his plea for him. He needed Iseldir, at least, to see not just the folly, but the danger in this. “I—”

“You what, Merlin?” Arthur said, crossing his arms in front of him. It was clear he was prepared to plan for the entertainment with the druids, since even the wisest among the visitors had approved it. “You have had your concerns addressed quite satisfactorily. Unless there is some other issue we should consider, I think we should be grateful for Mordred’s thoughtful suggestion and look forward to the tournament. Mordred, tell us, how will it be structured?”

Merlin felt his blood boiling. Mordred was stood at the head of Arthur’s table, excitedly spewing all the details of how he and everyone else would launch spells all over the tournament grounds and everybody would be delighted. Arthur’s smile grew as Mordred described arcs of light and glowing orbs. It was sickening, especially as Arthur hated Merlin’s magic—had never asked him once to do magic just for the beauty and wonder of it—yet here he was, drooling at the prospect of a hundred druids making a flower bloom.

He knew he wasn’t hiding his thoughts very well.  He wasn’t even trying to.

“Are you alright, Merlin?” Mordred interrupted his felicities to ask.

Merlin glared at Mordred, unwilling to play nice any longer.

“Of course he’s alright,” Arthur said, putting his arm around Merlin’s back and pounding it hard. “He’s just embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it himself. He is the first official court sorcerer of Camelot, after all. Isn’t that right, Merlin?”

Merlin pursed his lips. He had to remember Arthur. Despite the smarting of his back and Arthur’s voice dripping with sarcasm, he had to remember that Arthur’s life was at stake. “I wish that were true, Sire. But I have to advise against—”

“Nonsense, Merlin. Come.” He turned towards the room and nodded at Leon, who called everyone to attention.

“My guests, let me interrupt your conversation once again. It is my pleasure to announce that we will be hosting the first ever magical tournament in Camelot the day after next. Mordred here is organizing the event, and I’m sure he’s been talking to you all already about who will participate. My own Court Sorcerer, Lord Merlin, will oversee the festivities to ensure that all spells are safe and for entertainment purposes only. Myself, Merlin, and Iseldir look forward to all you have planned, and what the rest of the week holds for us. Thank you.”

Arthur took his seat, clearly considering the topic closed. Merlin fell into the seat next to him, but Mordred hesitated, until Arthur said, “Thank you, Mordred,” and he was dismissed.

 

&&&

The feast wound to a close soon after, with the excuse that everyone was tired from their long journeys. Merlin hurried to Gaius’s chambers.

“Gaius, you have to help me!” he ran in saying.

The old man was tidying up in what Merlin knew to be his nightly routine. “What is it, Merlin?” His worry was evident in his voice and how he did not scold him for barging in and scaring him half to death.

“Magic, Gaius. How can it be restored if one has lost it?”

“Lost it! Merlin, what ever do you mean? Tell me what’s happened.”

Merlin told Gaius all he knew, which wasn't much, he realized, now that he was reporting it. Describing the crisis increased his panic all the same.

“Merlin, this is serious. You can’t possibly allow a tournament to go on while you don’t have your powers. What if someone is trying to get to the king?”

“I know! But Arthur won’t listen, and I can’t tell him I’ve lost my magic!”

Gaius’s eyebrow lowered severely. “I thought you were done lying to the king about your abilities.”

“I was! This is different—this is a lack of abilities! I can’t confess that I don’t have magic! He’ll have no reason to keep me here at all then! And how could I protect him if I’m banished?”

“How can you protect him now?”

“That’s why I need your help!”

Gaius sighed, then looked at Merlin, his gaze softening. “I’ll have to read up on this and see what we can do. Until then, try to avoid anything out of the ordinary that other people might have tampered with. Those clothes, for instance,” Gaius said, pointing to Merlin’s unbecoming council garb.

“I’ll gladly do away with these. I’ve worn them before, though, just very rarely.”

“Still, you wouldn’t notice if something about them was different.”

Merlin nodded. This was good. Gaius was helpful in calming him down, getting him to think practically.

“What should I do until we find the answer?”

“Well, there’s the culprit to catch—”

“It’s Mordred! Of course it’s Mordred.”

“Merlin, don’t be so quick to judge. You must not jump to conclusions. Accusing him wrongly could be just the thing to bring the prophecy to fruition.”

Merlin nodded, chewing absently on a thumbnail. “Alright. I’ll not accuse him without proof. What else can I do?”

Gaius thought a moment. “Your magic must still be inside you somewhere; we just need to find it.”

“I don’t know, Gaius. I can’t feel it. I can’t feel it at all, not the slightest hint of it. I feel . . . hollow.”

“But Merlin, you said yourself you hadn’t even known it was gone.”

“Yes, but I had been feeling out of sorts, wrong somehow. I thought it was just Arthur!”

“Arthur.”

“Yes.”

Merlin looked at Gaius, studying his face, trying to see what the physician wanted to say about Merlin and the king.

“You’ve hurt him terribly, you know,” Gaius finally imparted, his voice low, as if they were discussing a vital secret. Perhaps they were.

Merlin didn’t answer. He knew it was true. He had wanted to hurt him, even. It was unfair, but it was what he'd done.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Merlin said. “Someone else is going to kill him, and he’s in this very castle right now.”

“Maybe, Merlin. Maybe. Please, keep your head about this. Perhaps you should talk to Iseldir. He’s a good man.”

“I’m not admitting to anyone else that I’ve lost my magic. I almost wasn’t even going to tell you.”

Gaius shook his head, clearly disappointed in the man Merlin had become. Merlin knew the feeling all too well.

“Thanks for your help, Gaius. I’ll come by tomorrow to see if you’ve discovered anything.”

“Goodnight, Merlin,” the old man said, and Merlin walked out, closing the door softly behind him. He felt worse than he had the whole day, and that was saying something.

 

&&&

Merlin went back to his chambers and changed into his usual trousers and tunic with a light jacket and scarf. He felt better already, and thought that maybe he’d got lucky. He turned to the candle that had defied him earlier.

“ _Léoht_ ,” he said. Nothing happened again. He sighed, but it was a kind of relief to be more used to the idea of his magic not responding. He couldn’t afford to be in a constant state of panic.

He couldn’t possibly sleep with so much to tend to, and he left his room to head down to the vaults that held all of Camelot’s most precious assets, many of them stolen in Uther’s brutal conquests.

Merlin knew Arthur planned to return to the druids most if not all of their treasures and artifacts, and he was proud that his king was generous and fair in such an extreme. There was a selfish part of himself, he hated to admit, that didn’t want to see the vault emptied of its magical secrets. Merlin had learned much from a few of the items over the years, but there were dozens more. He wanted to study them, to feel them, to catalog them, even—though when he had become such a researcher, he had no idea. Without his present crisis, he probably wouldn’t have paid a visit to the treasures before Arthur returned them to their rightful owners, but he had an idea that maybe one of them could spark his magic.

As court sorcerer, he had been given keys to the vaults, among other largely forbidden places in the castle, so he had no trouble getting in. It was late enough that he was sure no one would interrupt or interfere with him, and he wanted time with the sacred objects.

He walked over to a well-worn case that sat on a shelf. It was the size of a small jewelry box, and he ran his fingers lightly over the top. He read the words engraved on the lid and shuddered. This was Edwin Muir’s box of magical brain-eating bugs. That man had almost killed Morgana with one—and Uther. And he’d tried to kill Gaius.

Merlin’s hand slipped from the box, and he shook off the unwanted memories. They made him feel wretched and guilty, even, though for what, he wasn't sure. He didn’t want to dwell on it.

He looked around the cells of the vaults, taking in the larger inventory. He tried to think about his magic, about what things could make it stir without him wanting them to.

There had been a stone, once. Morgana had stolen it from these very vaults. When they retrieved it, Arthur made Merlin carry it back to Camelot, and it had assaulted him with horrible prophetic images. The stone had been a nightmare, and he never wanted to encounter that kind of magic again. Now, though, he wondered if such a stone could draw out his own powers, even darkly. He would risk a fragmented view of the future for it without question.

He began looking for the stone. He had never known what happened to it once they’d got it back to the castle. He’d been so busy trying to stop Morgana that he paid no attention to its fate.

A crystal, he remembered. That's what it was. He went toward the part of the vaults that held other such jewels. There were several containers of varying sizes. Merlin opened them all and held each angular, translucent object in his hands, one by one. With each, he tried to focus on its feel, its weight and texture, its essence, if he could. He tried to open himself to the suggestion of each stone, as he might instruct his students to do, but it wasn’t working.

He picked up a velvet pouch and let a rock slip out of it. He fingered its angles, then let it lie in his palm, as he had the others.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

Merlin spun around, clutching the stone in his hand. He felt like a thief caught red-handed, even though he had the right to be here. Arthur was before him, seeming more tired than angry. His eyes looked darker than usual in the cellar, but there was a softness in them that made Merlin’s insides twist uncomfortably.   

“Arthur!”

Arthur, more than any stone, would make his magic surge without him wanting it to. Sometimes he had to work to tamp it down while he was bathing Arthur or dressing him, or sleeping next to him in the middle of the forest. His magic craved Arthur, but he’d been so angry with him the last few months, and seen him so seldom, that it hadn’t had access to such stimulation. Merlin forgot how much it was all of him that was painfully drawn to this man, the king who had told his secret to everyone and propped him up in a funny hat before the court.

Arthur.

“Merlin, tell me what this is about. Tell me why you’re down here. Are you afraid something here will be used against us?”

In the quiet of the night, the seclusion of the vaults, Merlin wanted to confide in Arthur. He was as tired as Arthur looked—maybe more so—and it was obvious that he needed help. Arthur was offering it, but he needed to know something.

“Arthur, please. Don’t allow the tournament.”

“Why not? I need a reason, Merlin.”

“Can’t you just trust me on this?” Merlin wished he hadn’t given Arthur so many reasons not to.

Arthur stood silent, his red nightshirt faded to a thin pink gauze over his chest. Merlin wanted to crumble in his arms, and that was without his magic aching for it, too. 

“I’d like to, Merlin,” Arthur said, and his lips twitched in apology, “but I need more than that right now. Tell me something. Tell me what’s bothering you—besides me.”

Merlin didn’t know what to say. It seemed senseless to come up with lies. At the same time, he wanted to touch Arthur. He wanted to see if his magic could be ignited by its favorite object.

“You’re not bothering me,” Merlin said. His voice was so low it was almost inaudible. He put the jewel back on the shelf. “I wonder—”

He paused, feeling himself start to tremble. He looked up at Arthur instead of down at his hands, hoping the other man’s expression could give him strength. Apparently he needed a boost in basic courage as well as in magic.

Arthur was all patience. He looked like he would wait all night for Merlin to ask anything of him. He’d stand in the damp cell with the torchlight flickering honeyed shadows across his face. He made Merlin feel just a little bit brave.

“I wonder if we might just . . . ” Merlin raised a hand to Arthur’s face, but didn’t touch him. Instead, he let it fall onto Arthur’s shoulder, which in itself felt like a victory. He sighed at the warmth of Arthur’s body, the muscled width of his shoulder, its sculpted, solid strength.

“Why can’t we just have a normal tournament?” he whispered. “The kind where you ride around knocking people off horses.”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh. His smile was small, fragile. Merlin wanted to keep it in a box, like the many precious things that surrounded them. He couldn’t remember the last time Arthur had looked at him like that. He wondered if somehow he could tell he didn’t have magic. He hadn’t moved out from under Merlin’s grasp, and he hadn’t pointed out how strange it was for Merlin to hold him like that. Merlin knew he wouldn’t be allowed such a liberty forever, though.

He let his fingers lightly massage Arthur’s shoulder, working their way toward his neck so his thumb could dip into the space above his collarbone. He'd always loved that spot. It looked just a little vulnerable, like an access point to Arthur that few could ever touch.

He felt his arousal growing, not just at how Arthur’s hot skin felt to his hand, but at how Arthur just watched him. He wasn’t stopping him; he was just watching. He had swallowed once when the inside of Merlin’s hand grazed his neck, but that was it.     

Merlin grew bolder, and he brought his hand up to Arthur’s jaw. It felt just as he remembered, even when Arthur worked it, about to speak. Merlin couldn’t let go. He was aching for him. He wanted to never let go of him again.

But he did. He dropped his hand just as Arthur was about to say his name. He looked down at their feet, unable to face Arthur. He had wanted his king, the evidence was obvious. But his magic hadn’t wanted him, or hadn’t been able to thrust itself at him. It was devastating. Merlin realized that if Arthur’s bared neck in a compromising moment couldn’t ignite his magic, no trinket in the vaults could do it.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, ducking a little to try to meet Merlin’s gaze. Merlin turned away, not wanting to be seen. He knew again he was being fickle and unfair, but how could he stand before Arthur like this, not at all himself, and not able to confess it? He was exposing Arthur to danger, and he couldn’t even tell him why.

Arthur sighed, and Merlin felt Arthur's hand rub gently on his arm. It was a touch meant to console, which only made Merlin feel all the more pitiful.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said. “I’ll get things figured out by tomorrow. I’ll see you then.” He looked up at Arthur for a reaction but couldn’t make out his expression. At least he wasn’t about to kill him. He still looked so tired.

“Good night, Arthur,” he said, and he walked out of the vaults, feeling further away from his magic than ever.

 


	3. Part Three

Arthur returned to his chambers in no small amount of confusion. He had hoped to get an idea for a Yuletide gift for Merlin in the vaults, having decided that, despite everything Merlin had said, the Yule was not the time to give up on the friendship that had meant everything to him. Instead, he not only didn’t think of a gift, but he’d been stunned by Merlin’s behavior. He had found him in the cells examining gemstones, but he’d left with none. He’d lost interest in them as soon as Arthur had appeared.

When Arthur saw Merlin, he had braced himself for yet more anger from the man—for the druids, for the tournament, for disturbing his solitude, for being himself—but Merlin had seemed distressed, needy, even. He’d even made a joke about Arthur’s jousting. The comment had charmed him, to the point of making him feel as if the last few months were just a fog of time, not a record of hurtful arguments.

And Merlin had touched him—really touched him, to _feel_ him. But why? Arthur had been afraid that the slightest movement would startle Merlin out of the rare moment of softness, and he hoped Merlin might finally talk to him, the way he used to.

He’d let Merlin feel his skin, no matter how hard it was not to react, not to lean into the touch, to mew like a kitten or catch his breath on desire. It was amazing how easily Merlin could inspire that in him. He’d had to will his arm to stay at his side instead of snaking around Merlin’s waist.

It felt bizarre not to reciprocate, but Merlin had seemed like a wounded animal that would skitter at the slightest hint of action. Arthur wondered at how their positions could change so quickly. Only the day before, Arthur had been wild with pain, like a bull with its horns ripped out, and now he was the calm one who’d stood still as a statue.  

He could still feel the ghost of Merlin’s touch on his skin, and he absent-mindedly ran his fingers over his bare neck and shoulder.

As he tried to fall asleep, Arthur realized he had less of an idea than ever what was in Merlin’s head, but he was encouraged by the moment of tenderness. He had been wondering what to give to someone who hated you who you wanted to win back; now he was wondering what he could give the man who’d stood trembling in the vaults before him, who'd been so wretched he’d almost been willing to ask Arthur for help.

Almost.

 

&&&&

The next day, Mordred was running around gleefully talking to druids and Camelot citizens alike, trying to recruit participants for his tournament. His excitement was contagious. The castle and the training grounds were abustle with youthful energy. There were small spells being cast, with moths changing colors and various objects levitating. The knights were even trying to do tricks with their weapons—catching them behind their backs, flipping them in the air—something Arthur had officially discouraged but personally enjoyed. If a knight could transfer his sword from one hand to another while turning to face a new opponent, Arthur smiled with approval. If one was seen practicing such a move, though, Arthur would scold the knight for not respecting the power of the blade.  

On this day, though, no one feared scolding. There was something in the air that told everyone that play was what the field was made for, and Arthur could see Gwaine laughing as his own two-handed flail hit him in the face. He minded that a lot less since it was happening to Gwaine, who could always use a little knocking down. He was glad to see that Leon, who was mostly just going through his regular drills, was at least stealing glances at the other men with amusement.

Arthur tried to take note of who among the druids was most involved in the planning. Mordred, certainly, and his pretty friend, Kara, who had accompanied him to Camelot. She was following Mordred around as he talked to the druids and some of the servants, but she would also wander back to sit with the other man from their group, Alvarr. If anyone seemed suspicious to Arthur, it was the latter, but the only thing he could accuse the man of at this point was dressing more like a common fighter than a druid. That was hardly a crime, though, and Arthur couldn’t blame the man, either. He himself liked the idea of going about in soft linens all the time, but he couldn’t imagine visiting a previously hostile kingdom without some show of might.

Kara seemed shy, but why shouldn’t she be? Many of the other guests hadn’t spoken to anyone who wasn’t a druid, and Arthur had seen Kara and Mordred talking with two of the servants at least, Gilli and Sefa, earlier that morning.

Arthur scanned the field to catalog all of the activity, hoping to ease his own concerns about the risks of the tournament, as well as look for anything suspicious that he might talk about with Merlin.

Nothing before him suggested trouble brewing. In fact, he felt encouraged by the display of so many people working together to plan a new kind of courtly entertainment. It was just the kind of mutual effort he hoped could be made during this visit by the druids, though he had no way of knowing this was the shape it would take. He was glad of having invited them again, feeling affirmed that he’d done the right thing to advance peace and understanding in his kingdom.

 

&&&

That evening, the hall was as crowded for dinner as it had been the night before, although the meal was not a formal one. Arthur was glad that everyone seemed happy enough in each other’s company that they did not need to be made to dine together. He was eating with his knights, and he was titillated by Mordred coming to join them when he entered the hall.

“Mordred!” Arthur greeted him. “Please, pull up a chair.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Mordred said, smiling.

“Oh, you don’t have to call him that all the time,” Gwaine said, then bit another hunk of meat from the bone in his hand. “Only when you think he’s really mad.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “And for Gwaine, that is all the time, since he challenges me daily to strip him of his knighthood.”

“Oh, if that’s what you’re after!” Gwaine said, his eyes laughing.

“Gwaine!” Lancelot scolded.

“It’s alright, Lancelot," Arthur said. "It’s good for Mordred to see that just because a man is a knight of Camelot, doesn't mean there isn't room for improvement. In Gwaine’s case, one can hardly imagine him getting any worse.”

“And yet—” Gwaine started.

“—and yet Gwaine still needs shutting up,” Leon interrupted, shoving a hunk of bread in the other knight’s mouth.

“Without us, he wouldn’t last a day as one of Arthur’s knights,” Elyan said to Mordred, who sat next to him in wide-eyed wonder at the knights’ camaraderie. He was clearly enjoying their antics, which was part of why Arthur had let them go on in front of him.

“My Lord,” Mordred addressed Arthur. “This is encouraging news!”

“What, that Sir Gwaine needs constant supervision?”

Mordred huffed a laugh, casting his gaze low. He seemed not to want to offend anyone. “No, that . . . ” He looked at Arthur and around the table of merry knights. “That you allow men to serve Camelot, even if they’re different.”

“Different from what?” Arthur asked.

“From typical knights,” Mordred answered. “I have hopes of being a knight of Camelot myself one day, but I’ve been told it’s a foolish dream.”

“Why foolish? There is no ambition more noble,” Arthur said, moved by the young man’s confession.

Mordred looked around the table. Everyone had gone quiet at the question. Arthur wondered why the tension had grown so quickly. Did everyone know of Merlin’s half-formed prophecy? He doubted it.

“Because I’m a druid, Sire.” Mordred kept his head up as he answered, but only just. There was a fragility to his pride that Arthur wished to ease.  

He thought about the compatibility of being a druid and knight. “I don’t see any reason why that should matter now, although I’ve always thought the druids were pacifists. I’m surprised to learn of your interest in combat.”

“Oh, well, I’ve grown up a little bit all over. I’ve lived with different peoples and my own beliefs are unconventional, I guess. I just know I’ve admired you since I was a boy, and I’ve been training in the hopes of impressing you with my skills on the field while we’re here.”

“You mean apart from the magic tournament?”

“Yes, Sire, although I hope you’ll be very happy with that, too. We’ve been working all day on it, Kara and I.” Mordred looked around the hall, ostensibly for the girl he’d just mentioned. He was more interested in holding Arthur’s attention, though, and his glimpse was only cursory.

“Yes, I saw you earlier. Well, then. You’ll have to have a good sparring match or two with Gwaine here. He’s earned himself some extra practice time at this dinner, don’t you think?” Arthur asked, smirking at Mordred.

Mordred seemed pleased to be included in the joke. He nodded at Arthur. “Thank you, Sire. I’ll keep him busy all morning.”

“Morning!” Gwaine complained.

“Bright and early, Sir Gwaine!” Arthur said. He stood up, ready to excuse himself from the table and greet the other diners in the hall, when Merlin came into the chamber. “Merlin,” Arthur said, almost to himself, though the knights and Mordred immediately turned to see the warlock enter, walking straight towards their table.

“Sire,” he said, his voice serious and unfriendly.

“Have a seat, Merlin. Maybe you can be the butt now instead of me. At this rate, I’ll be polishing Mordred’s boots before breakfast,” Gwaine said.

Merlin did not sit, but turned to look at Mordred at the mention of his name. He was frowning. Arthur hoped Merlin would be civil, but he wasn’t feeling optimistic.

“I take it this tournament is still going to take place?” Merlin asked, turning to Arthur.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” the king answered. “Everyone’s been planning and practicing all day.”

“I kept hoping you’d join in, Merlin, but you never even showed up on the field,” Mordred said, looking up at Merlin from his seat.   

“I had actual work to do, Mordred. If only I had time to supervise everything you’ve been up to.”

“Merlin,” Arthur scolded. “Have you come here to dine? I suggest you be civil.”

“At least as civil as me,” Gwaine said. “And I chew with my mouth open.”

Merlin sighed. “I’m sorry. I still have my concerns about the tournament, though, and since, as Mordred points out, I haven’t even seen the practice, I need some way to know what's to happen.”

“How do you mean,” Arthur said.

“As court sorcerer, I’ll need a list of all the spells that will be used during the tournament. Every one of them.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Mordred protested. “We want to impress you! We can’t do that if you know everything that’s coming!”

The look on Merlin’s face wasn’t growing friendlier.

“Mordred, I think it would be best if you did as Merlin said. If he’s in charge of the safety of the event, he should have whatever tools he deems necessary.” Arthur placed a hand on Mordred’s shoulder as he spoke. “I assure you that seeing the first magical tournament will be impressive, whether Merlin has a list of spells or not.”

Merlin seemed relieved, sighing as he turned a calmer eye on Arthur, who was glad to see it.

“Thank you, Sire,” Merlin said. “I’ll expect the list delivered to me in my chambers tonight.”

“Tonight? But I was—” Mordred began, glancing around the table.

“Tonight,” Merlin said, and Mordred nodded.

“Alright. Now that that’s settled,” Arthur concluded, “I think I’ll go greet the other guests.”

Arthur watched Merlin leave the banquet hall as quickly as he’d come in. He hoped the advance warning about the spells would soothe Merlin's nerves, but somehow he doubted it.  

 

&&&

That evening, Arthur decided he'd visit Merlin in his chambers. He knew they were long out of the habit of keeping evening company with each other, but he also knew Merlin was full of anxiety about the tournament. How many times had he come to Arthur’s rooms, knowing he’d be scolded and abused, but refusing to be turned away? Arthur needed to return that favor. He fortified himself against an angry reception and knocked on Merlin's door.

“Come in,” he heard Merlin call from within.

Arthur opened the door slowly, and he realized, upon seeing the unfamiliar room, that he had never visited Merlin here. It made sense—why would he have—but on the other hand, it struck him as unbearably sad, that Merlin should know his chambers so intimately, but that Arthur would know nothing of Merlin’s. He had loved Merlin’s old room at Gaius’s rather deeply, in fact. This felt entirely different.

He looked at the large, well-made bed and wondered if Merlin liked it, if he ever shared it with anyone, and his stomach clenched at the thought. He turned to the rest of the room and saw Merlin sitting at a small table, a parchment in front of him. His hands were clasped in front of his face, obscuring his mouth from view. His eyes looked vague and glazed, as if he’d been sitting like that for some time.

“May I come in?” Arthur asked, unsure if he was welcome.

“You’re the king,” Merlin answered from behind his hands.

Arthur sighed. He wanted to be visiting as a friend, but he couldn’t say that. He didn’t know how to call on someone, to check on them. He wished that Merlin were visiting his chambers instead, but no—he wanted to do this. He wanted to help.

He sat in the chair opposite Merlin’s. “Is that the schedule of events for tomorrow?” Arthur motioned towards the paper.

“It is,” Merlin said, letting out a huff and leaning back in his chair. He seemed exhausted.

Arthur took the paper and read it over. “Spells for changing the colors of flowers, making drawings in the air, guessing wishes and weights . . . these seem harmless enough.”

Merlin uttered a noncommittal hum. Arthur would have to push harder.

“And yet you’re still troubled. What is it? Do you have anything to report to me?”

Merlin looked up at Arthur. “Report? No. Just that—”

He leaned forward again, then stood up and walked across the room.

“Just what, Merlin? What is it? I can’t help you if you tell me nothing.”

Merlin stayed with his back to Arthur. He was hugging his arms across his chest. “You won’t cancel the tournament?”

Arthur sighed, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “No, Merlin. Not without a good reason that I can give the druids.”

Merlin sighed, deeply enough for Arthur to see his shoulders slump with the exhale of breath. “What if I resigned my position?” Merlin said, his voice deep and hollow.

“What? Resi—” Arthur stood up and walked over to Merlin. He grabbed his arm and spun him around. “ _Resigned_ as court sorcerer? Right now??”

“Would you?” Merlin demanded, standing close enough to touch Arthur’s shoulder again, or his chest, though he didn’t. His hands were fists clenched at his sides. “Would you cancel the tournament then, if I stepped down as your sorcerer?”

Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was no amount of looking at Merlin’s face or the window or the chambers that would make Merlin’s words sensible. “You would do that just for _this_? Merlin, nothing is going to happen!”

“ _It’s not just for this!_ ” Merlin hissed, and small flecks of spit flew from his mouth unintentionally, but it seemed apt punctuation.

 _Oh_ , Arthur thought. _Oh_. What was it for, then? Did Merlin wish to leave Camelot? Was he so unhappy? Did he really hate Arthur after all, and want to be free of everything to do with him, even his own friends and his livelihood?

Arthur didn’t know if he was more heartbroken for himself or for Merlin. He let go of the man’s arm.

Arthur’s mouth was open, ready to say something, but he couldn’t imagine what. Merlin's name was all he managed.  

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” Merlin said. His eyes were impossibly heavy, with sleeplessness or sadness or both, but they also looked determined. Their blue was dark and muted. It was as if a kind of numbness had replaced the brilliance.

“I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “You don’t—you don’t mean this.”

“I do, Arthur. It’s never been right for me—to be court sorcerer—but now, now I don’t even . . . ”

He paused, running a hand through his hair, which looked, Arthur realized, as much of a mess as Merlin seemed, and as he was making Arthur.

“You don’t even what? You don’t even care what happens to me anymore?”

Merlin's head snapped back up at Arthur. “Of course I care.”  

Arthur nodded in disbelief. “And yet you think now is the right time to do this.” He started pacing in the room, his hands on his hips, his mind racing over histories and possible outcomes. “Have you not said you think Camelot is vulnerable with all our guests here? In particular, that we will be in danger tomorrow in the stands?”

“I have.”

“And you would leave us unprotected? You would walk away when you are the only protection we have from any danger the druids could pose?” Arthur was speaking louder than he meant to be. He knew this was a terrible conversation to have anyone overhear, but he couldn’t help it. There were so many last straws with Merlin lately, and each one made nothing else matter.

“No,” Merlin answered firmly. “I believe you will cancel the tournament without my protection.”

“Well, I won’t, Merlin. I won’t.” He pointed in Merlin’s face to emphasize his point. He was a king, but he was also a man who had his dignity. “You will not manipulate me in this way to get what you want. If you really think I’m in danger, you’re as good as committing treason, but you are free to resign your position if you wish. It will be on your conscience, whatever happens.”

“So you believe me that something will happen?” Merlin seemed unmoved by Arthur’s personal pain. His only focus was the tournament.

“I don’t! I believe in the word of good men, and I’ve given my word to Iseldir and the others. They will prove you wrong, if you will even be here to see it! Should I tell Gaius you said goodbye, or will you at least pass his door on your way out?”

“I never said I was leaving Camelot,” Merlin said, seeming to relish confounding the king.

“Well, what are you doing, then, other than letting down everyone in this castle?”

“I don’t know!” Merlin yelled, adding yet another stupefying layer to the argument. “I just can’t be your court sorcerer. And you should cancel the tournament without one. You’re in danger!”

“And you’re so concerned, you’re leaving me to it without so much as an _attempt_ at an excuse for yourself.”

Arthur walked to the door. With his hand on the handle, he turned and said, “No matter what the druids or anyone else has in store for me, I doubt they’ll ever hurt me as much as you have.”

Arthur walked out, slamming the door hard behind him. He had not seen any part of that conversation coming, and he couldn’t fathom what Merlin leaving would mean, for himself or for Camelot.

Once he was well clear of the corridor to Merlin’s chambers, he tried to arrange his thoughts. He’d have to at least ask Gaius to sit with him during the tournament and keep watch over the spells. He was glad he had seen the list Mordred prepared, so that he could help the old man in some small way. Gods knew Gaius had nothing like Merlin’s magic, and if danger was on its way, he’d need all the help he could get.

 

&&&   

The next day, nothing seemed of import except the tournament. People took to the stands well before the matches were to begin, and the excitement in the air was palpable. Arthur was glad of it, because no one, not even George, seemed to notice how distracted and upset he was. He hoped to all the gods he could think of that Merlin hadn’t actually left Camelot. He also hoped Merlin would be proved wrong about the dangers of the tournament. This was supposed to be entertainment, the beginning, perhaps, of a celebrated tradition.

On the other hand, Arthur realized how reckless a magical tournament would be in Uther’s eyes. He never wanted his father proved right in matters of magic. He needed all to go well to affirm his position on magic to the people of Camelot who would well know what the previous king would say about such a thing.

When Arthur made his ceremonial entrance onto the tournament grounds, he was glad to see Gaius already seated in the king’s box. He nearly broke his own processional, though, when he realized Merlin was seated there, too. He was relieved by the sight, but also felt his anger resurfacing, and he wanted to look pleased and confident to the crowd of citizens and druids. He inhaled deeply as he walked towards the stands, his red cloak sweeping behind him. At this moment, he liked feeling its weight.

Arthur waved to the crowd before taking his seat. He had had the length of the walk to think about Merlin’s refusal to do anything that was expected of him. He didn’t know whether to be more mad at Merlin’s reversal of course or of his having resigned his post in the first place. He decided not to address him at all.

“Gaius,” he said, acknowledging the man to his left rather than the one to his right. “Thank you, again, for assuming such high duties on such short notice. Your service to the crown is _unparalleled_ and I will not forget it.”

He had emphasized his words, despite his intention not to fight with Merlin in public. He couldn’t help it. What kind of game was Merlin playing with him?  With the whole court? It was infuriating.

“It’s nothing, Sire,” Gaius said. “I only wish I could do more.” His eyebrow seemed to motion towards Merlin, and Arthur understood his meaning. No one could make Merlin do things he didn’t want to, though. Arthur knew that better than anyone.

“There is nothing more to be done, Gaius.”

Arthur sat back and watched the participants in the tournament take the field to bow before him. He was honored by the ceremony and the gesture. He didn’t need Merlin’s tantrums to cloud his view of the noble gift these people were offering him and his court. He stood up and bowed to them in return, then opened the games with a small speech.

“Thank you, all, for this gallant opening to the tournament. We’ve been looking forward to this event since Mordred suggested it, and I’m honored by the respect and enthusiasm with which you have embraced it.

“It has been explained to me that there will be two groups facing off in the tournament, one lead by Mordred, and one by Kara. They’ve each chosen their teammates to make their most impressive displays of magic, individually in each category, and overall.  

“I am to be the final judge of who is the winner, but I will happily vote with the crowd and award whoever gets the most cheers.

“May the tournament begin!”

Arthur took his seat and applauded the contestants as they retreated to their respective sides of the field.  

When the crowd settled, Mordred and Kara marched to the center of the grounds, each with one of their youngest teammate. The boy that Mordred brought out was the one that Arthur had greeted in the courtyard, Iseldir’s son, and Arthur smiled at the sight of one so young performing for a king. The boy took a small bow and then held his hands out to the stands, showing they were empty. He then pressed them together and whispered something into them. He held his eyes shut very tightly as he spoke, and he was swaying back and forth, probably without realizing it.

When he opened his eyes, a shy smile appeared on his face. He opened his hands to the crowd, and a small ball of light floated out. It reminded Arthur of a blue orb he had seen many years before, in a far away cave while he was hanging on to a cliff's edge for his life. His chest tightened at the memory, at the awareness that the man who had thus saved him was right beside him but had already sworn to leave him. He didn’t need more reminders of how beloved Merlin had been to him. While he was charmed by the boy’s innocence and pride in casting the spell right—the light he floated was a beautiful shade of lilac—he hoped the other displays would not have such a familiar tinge to them.

After happy cheering for the boy’s efforts, the girl stepped forward for Kara’s side. This was not the girl Arthur had met two days before, but a girl he had not seen very much of in the past few days. He figured there were many druids with whom he had not spoken at length, and he was glad of this chance to see more of them.

The girl made a similar start to her trick, but when she released her hands, three small flashes of light burst from them. The lights fizzled out before they came close to the stands, but they had had some speed behind them. It was a bit startling, but ultimately harmless, and the girl herself clapped at the trick, as did everyone else. Hers was the clear winner.

“Score one to the Blue team,” Arthur called out, and more cheering followed.  

The next three duels were similar, with various forms of light being discharged into the air. They each ended with the light dissipating shortly after it was released from the sorcerer’s hands, and appropriate amounts of applause. Kara’s Blue team was winning three points to one to Mordred’s White team.

Apart from the occasional adjustment in their seats and polite levels of clapping after each spell, Gaius and Merlin were both quiet next to Arthur. He’d been trying to ignore Merlin in particular, but he could never be unaware of the man next to him, especially when he might be on the verge of losing him forever, and before he could properly throttle him.

The next round of challenges required volunteers, and Mordred and Kara each selected a few from the audience.

“Kara and I will now attempt to read the minds of our volunteers, and tell them which number they are thinking of. The volunteers will try to keep us from detecting it as we go on. Are we ready?” Mordred asked.

The first few numbers were guessed rather quickly, but then the volunteers seemed to be getting the hang of blocking their minds. Arthur was keenly interested in the exercise, for he knew how dangerous it would be if an opponent could read one’s mind on the battlefield—or at the negotiating table. He looked at Merlin instinctively, expecting a knowing glance to meet his eyes. Instead, he saw Merlin’s jaw locked, his gaze intent on the field. He seemed almost terrified. Could he read people’s minds, Arthur wondered? He had never asked. It saddened him to think he was even more of an open book than he felt. There were other matters at hand now, though.  
  
He turned to Gaius, who was watching with interest, certainly, but not the fear that Merlin displayed.

“How well can the druids read minds, Gaius? I wasn’t aware of this gift,” Arthur whispered, not wishing to be overheard.

Gaius looked at him. “It’s common for them to talk to each other without speaking, but it’s unknown to what degree they can hear others’ thoughts. I would assume the talent for it varies from person to person.”

Arthur nodded. Perhaps Merlin had had more of a point than Arthur realized about safety concerns. Why a tournament would matter at all was unclear though. Surely the druids could read minds with or without this pageantry.

“Erm, you’re a tough one, Gwen,” Mordred was saying when Arthur turned his attention again to the field.

Gwen laughed at the compliment and the game, but Arthur knew she was smart enough to realize its implications. He was glad she was not an easy read, if Mordred was to be believed.

“I think I have to give up on this one,” Mordred finally said. “I guess another point goes to the Blue team.”

Kara curtsied at Mordred, accepting the point and clapping for her volunteers.

“Before our final bout of challenges, we want to amuse you by granting one wish to the volunteers. Gwen, you may go first, as you confounded Mordred here,” Kara said.

“A wish to grant! Oh, my. There must be limits on what I can choose?” Gwen was a lovely participant, and savvy in asking about the parameters of such a trick.

“We may interpret your wish to bring it within the realm of possibility, but you can make your wish freely. It need not be something you’ve seen already here today.”

“Hmm. I think I will wish for . . . ” Gwen looked around the stands. Arthur wished he could read her mind at that moment. She stopped scanning everyone when her eyes fell upon the knights. “I wish for a bouquet of flowers,” she said, smiling and smoothing her skirts. It was the only thing to give away her nervousness.

“A fine choice, my lady,” Kara said, “though I think we can do better than that. How about having the handsomest of Camelot’s knights bring you a bouquet?”

“Well, I—” Gwen started to demure. Her attention was drawn immediately to the stands, though, where Gwaine had stood up and was whisking his hair out of his face. He was making his way for the stairs when Leon pulled on his arm for him to sit back down. On Leon’s other side, Lancelot was holding a small bouquet of flowers, and he finally stood up, fighting a smile, and made his way towards Gwen. The crowd cooed as he handed them to her, and she bowed her head and curtsied in acceptance, a heavy blush spread across her cheeks.

“That was foul play,” Gwaine said. “Everyone knows I’m the handsomest knight!”

“Everyone knows you _think_ you’re the handsomest knight, Gwaine. There’s a big difference,” Elyan said. The crowd laughed and cheered, and the spell seemed to please everyone except Gwaine, which pleased everyone even more.

“And now it will be my pleasure, Sefa, to grant you one wish,” Mordred said to Kara’s volunteer.

The young woman was fairly new to Camelot. She had come on staff a few weeks before Morgana and Agravaine’s siege on the castle. Arthur had interrupted her flirting with Merlin on more than one occasion, and he hoped her wish would not involve him now, as Gwen’s had unwittingly involved Lancelot, whom everyone knew she adored (and he her).

Sefa looked around the crowd as Gwen had, but she seemed at a loss for what to wish.

“Perhaps you’d like something that would put a smile on Lord Merlin’s face,” Kara said, bowing towards the king’s box.

Arthur noticed Merlin stiffen in his seat, as if he were holding his breath. Kara was either reading Sefa’s mind more deeply than Arthur liked, or it was mere coincidence that she’d drawn attention to Sefa’s object of affection. Either way it was awkward, as Merlin had never reciprocated, and he couldn’t possibly be in the mood to be drawn into the trick.

“Oh!” Sefa said, her hand quickly covering her mouth. “I hadn’t thought—”

“Of course not, Sefa,” Kara said. “But we had hoped this entertainment would please Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, and he looks most unhappy so far. Wouldn’t you like your gift to brighten his mood?” Her eyes had been on Merlin as she spoke, and they stayed there even while she waited for Sefa to respond. Was she challenging him in some way Arthur couldn’t understand?

Sefa stood awkwardly on the field, blushing shyly.  

“Of course you would,” Kara supplied. “So what shall it be? What would make Lord Merlin smile?”

“Bear in mind,” Mordred jumped in, “this is your wish, Sefa, not Lord Merlin’s or Kara’s.” Mordred gave an odd look to his opponent, but his expression was pleasant as he waited for Sefa’s answer.  

“I wish . . . ”

Arthur could feel the tension rolling off of Merlin in waves. It was strange that so simple a game had become so fraught. Arthur waited like everyone else for Sefa to utter her wish.

“I wish for flowers like Gwen’s,” Sefa said, and she looked at Kara. Kara shrugged her shoulders theatrically, as if there was no helping the girl.  

“Terrific,” Mordred answered, clearly relieved. “And perhaps Lord Merlin will smile once he sees you with your pretty bouquet.” He produced a fine array of flowers from behind his back and handed it to the girl, who took it almost as happily as Gwen had, perhaps more so.

Before she left the field, she chanced a look at Merlin in the crowd, but her gaze was timid. Arthur didn’t blame her, either for wanting to see Merlin's reaction or for fearing it. Merlin did not smile, but simply nodded his approval and clapped politely. Arthur had less of an idea than ever what was going on.

“Merlin, what was that about?” Gaius asked while the crowd cheered for the end of the segment and took some refreshments.

“I don’t know,” Merlin said coldly. Gaius didn’t pursue it further.

Arthur noticed Mordred and Kara in heated discussion off the field, probably to sort out the logistics of the final challenge. It would have been impossible to get everything in perfect order in the short time they’d had to prepare, and the last bit of confusion with Sefa had proved that.

Arthur sat back in his chair. He may have been inspired by the couple arguing on the field, for he turned to Merlin.

“So what are you doing here? You could have been spared that little scene with your girlfriend if you just stayed away like you said you were going to.”

Merlin looked at him, his gaze shifting from one of Arthur’s eyes to the other. He looked like a caged animal, but he had already resigned his post. “I wouldn’t leave you unprotected.”

“Then why say that you would?”

“You know why.”

“Because you’re hateful,” Arthur said, seeing the man’s anger in his very being. “You need not have come. Don’t bother doing so again.”  

Merlin glared at Arthur, but the king refused to countenance it. Luckily for him, the events were resuming.

“Our final challenge will be the most spectacular of the day,” Mordred announced to the crowd. “We will lodge small charges of light at each other, as you saw in the earlier spells, but as they come at us, we will dissipate them with matching spells. It will be a kind of volley, showing the dynamic interaction of two different sorcerers’ magic. We hope you enjoy it!”

Mordred stepped back into line with his team, and they all prepared quietly for the energetic display. His team began the volley, and Mordred called for it clearly.

“White team! Light your orbs!”

The six druids on Mordred’s side all stood with a glowing ball of light. It was a rather awe-inspiring sight, Arthur thought. Mystical and pure, and he admired the order of it. He didn’t really want them to do anything but hold the lights there, reverently, but he knew more was to come.

“Volley!” Mordred called, and the orbs arced into the air, softly and without menace. They coasted over the midway point between the white and blue teams, then started their descent.

“Present shields!” Kara yelled, and she and her teammates held up their hands. There was nothing to see until the orbs hit the invisible shield, and the lights dispersed in ways that showed the contours of the protection spell. It was amazing, and Arthur stood up and cheered with the rest of the crowd. He was stunned.

Kara’s team threw the next volley, and their light orbs went much faster than Mordred’s, but the white team was ready. Each member cast a counter-spell against an orb that made it explode in mid-air, sending sparks of light cascading to the ground. The wooden stands were echoing with the oohs and ahhs of the crowd, who couldn’t get enough of the display, the likes of which they’d never seen. Arthur was applauding loudly. He was in love with Mordred’s tournament.

The next volley thrown by the white team was larger and faster than either of the previous two, and this time the blue team responded almost immediately, and they released matching fiery orbs. The one hurled from Kara’s hands collided with Mordred’s, but it hit it at such an angle that, rather than drop to the ground in a shower of sparks, it came flying into the stands, as if catapulted, and it was headed right for Arthur.

He heard people screaming as he tried to duck, but Merlin had jumped in front of him. The blow hit Merlin square in the chest and sent him tumbling over Arthur’s back, such was the strength of the fiery attack.

“Merlin!” Arthur screamed, turning to the row behind them where Merlin had fallen, unconscious. He stood up and shouted commands that were already being followed. “Seize the players! No one leaves the castle grounds! Gaius—Gaius!”

Gaius was already tending to Merlin, but not with any visible effect.

“Clear the way! Leon! Get him to Gaius’s—now! Gaius, what do you need?”

“I don’t know yet, Sire. He’s alive, but only barely.” The old man seemed broken by his own words, and Arthur realized he must have felt as though he were holding his own son’s body in his arms.

“Merlin . . . ” Arthur said. “Gaius, why didn’t he use his magic?”

Gaius only looked at Arthur, his eyes heavy with sadness and worry. He needed to get Merlin inside the castle.

 

&&&

It took a few hours for things to start making sense. Leon and Gwaine made sure Merlin got to Gaius’s chambers as carefully and quickly as possible, and they were tireless, along with Gwen, in getting the physician anything he needed to tend to Merlin.

Everyone who participated in the tournament was questioned separately, by both Arthur and Iseldir. Mordred was beside himself with grief and anxiety.

“Is Merlin alright? Is he alright? Why didn’t he just use his magic to deflect the energy? He’s _Merlin_ , he can’t be hurt!” Mordred pleaded, as if saying Merlin couldn’t be hurt would make it true.

“Merlin is in Gaius’s care,” Arthur said firmly. “Tell us what happened on the field.”

Mordred swallowed a sob. He was an emotional young man, and Arthur felt for him, but he knew such depth of feeling could be a weakness, could get people hurt, as he and Merlin seemed to keep doing to each other. And now Merlin lay dying, because Arthur wouldn’t listen to him, or because he wouldn’t listen to himself. Certainly Arthur hadn’t attacked Merlin, but he felt as though he may as well have. Merlin said something like this would happen, and it did.

“It was—” Mordred began. He looked up at Iseldir.

“Speak, Mordred. You know we saw what happened,” the elder druid said. “It’s hard for you to admit this, I know, but you must, for the sake of everything you hold dear—nobility, love, peace with Camelot. Tell us what happened.”

Mordred wiped at his nose. His face was red with crying. “It was Kara. I didn’t know she would do such a thing! I knew she was less happy than I was about forming an alliance with Camelot, but I never dreamed she would—” He lowered his head, a small whimper escaping his lips.

“You're in love with her,” Arthur said.

Mordred nodded. “My lord, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I swear! I would never harm you!”

“I believe you, Mordred.”

“Or _Merlin_! Please tell him I’d never harm him!”

“I will. I promise. Thank you for your honesty. I know it is hard to tell such truths about someone you hold dear.”

Mordred bowed to the king and left the throne room. Arthur hoped the young man would be a better judge of character in the future, but since he himself had been fooled by many whom he had loved, he could hardly hold it against him. Love was always noble, even when misplaced. He had to believe that.

“You are as just as your reputation suggests, King Arthur,” Iseldir said, once they were alone. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am that such an attack was made during this week when you have been nothing but gracious and hospitable towards us. I do not wish to see our peace threatened by Kara’s actions, but I understand if you must assume a more cautious stance in your dealings with us now.”

Arthur had thought about how he would proceed with the druid troupe as a whole. He did not believe in blaming a whole people for the actions of one or a few. They had worked too hard in coming together, their energies had been too genuine, to throw all of that away. Of course, nothing would be decided until Merlin’s fate was known, but for now, Arthur intended to treat Iseldir and the others as guests, while Kara and her suspected accomplices were held in the dungeons.

“I will not act rashly, Iseldir, I assure you. I must see to Merlin, though, before I determine anything about the outcome of these events.”

“Of course, Sire.”

“I have to ask you, Iseldir, as Mordred’s point was a good one, and it’s been troubling me all night: Why didn’t Merlin use his magic to stop her?” Arthur had begun to suspect Merlin’s magic had been tampered with, but he couldn’t imagine how that would be done.  

Iseldir’s gaze fell to the floor. “My lord, I believe Kara has been honing her telepathy skills far beyond the level that the druids condone.”

“And by telepathy, you’re saying she could direct Merlin’s own magic? Turn it off, even, somehow? That’s an almost unthinkable assault on a person’s mind.”

“I know, and I intend to have her magic extinguished for such an atrocity. That she could do this to Lord Merlin is especially appalling, as we hold him in the highest regard, and have for a very long time. She has betrayed her own people, and I hope you let us mete out her punishments accordingly. I understand if you wish to prosecute her in Camelot, though.”

“I’ll take it under consideration, Iseldir.”

“There is more,” Iseldir said. “Kara did not take Merlin’s magic away in the way that you suggest. She only knows how to use her magic to grant what’s in someone else’s mind. She may have wanted Merlin to be powerless, but she needed to find someone who shared that very same wish.”

Arthur felt his throat constrict as if he’d swallowed a poison. “My god,” he said, remembering his own malicious curses against Merlin’s magic. Who else would have wished for such a thing? He could think of no one.

Arthur had made Merlin defenseless, and the worst part was that he had wanted to. It was the strength of his desire to see Merlin stripped of such power that had been Merlin’s undoing. There was no telling yet if he would even recover.

“Sire, no one could have known that their thoughts would become reality, and no one knew there was someone with such malice listening in on private matters. To think a thing is not to commit it.”

“Thank you, Iseldir,” Arthur said, hoping the man would not continue his argument. Arthur felt wretched, and no particular platitude was going to erase that. He needed to see Merlin well, entirely recovered, with his health and his magic intact, and he needed to beg Merlin’s forgiveness. How could he have wished away any part of Merlin’s being? He loved all of Merlin, the whole of Merlin.

Arthur needed to ensure that the danger was at least really over. “Has her magic been stopped? Has the wish against Merlin been reversed?”

“It has, your majesty. As soon as she directed her assault into the stands, many of us pooled our energy to disarm her. The wishes she had granted became undone, and she cannot wield such dark power again.”

“And Alvarr?”

“Alvarr is largely without power himself. He was urging her to commit such acts, but he himself can assault no one, at least not by magical means.”

“That’s another way he doesn’t fit the druid type, I suppose. I noticed he didn’t exactly look the part, but I wouldn’t judge a man for that.”

“And such wisdom does you credit,” Iseldir said, bowing slightly.

Arthur nodded, less sure than Iseldir of his own wisdom. “Please continue your questioning of Kara, Alvarr, and anyone else you wish, and report to me your findings. I trust you will also let Gaius know anything you learn that might aid in Merlin’s recovery,” Arthur said with a piercing look into Iseldir’s eyes. He wanted the other man to act swiftly if there was anything more to be done for Merlin, who lay unconscious in Gaius’s chambers.

“Of course, my lord. Thank you,” Iseldir said, and took his leave of the king.

Arthur took a deep breath, hoping that his thoughtless wish in a moment of anger wouldn’t cost Merlin his magic or his life—or cost Arthur the life he needed himself, with Merlin always by his side.

He walked back to Gaius’s, vowing not to leave Merlin until he woke up, which he had to do. He just simply had to.  


	4. Part Four

Merlin came to with a heavy head and a feeling that his breathing was being restricted. He opened his eyes slowly, as the sun was coming in the window at an inconvenient angle, and he realized he was in his old bed at the back of Gaius’s chambers.

More than that, he realized that the weight on his chest was the king’s head and arms, as he lay strewn across Merlin’s body, his lower half awkwardly sprawled in a chair facing the bed. Merlin chuckled at the view, but it hurt his chest almost immediately, and the movement woke Arthur.

“Merlin!” he gasped, his face beaming and ruddy, either from his position or an emotional night.

“Oh, no,” Merlin said, his voice unexpectedly raspy. “You’re going to plague me in the afterlife, too?” He knew the smile he wore in waking up with Arthur on top of him would take the sting out of the comment.

“You wish,” Arthur said, not moving away at all. It was nice, and Merlin felt his magic curling out to touch the golden skin and hair.

“My magic!” Merlin yelped, realizing what was happening. “ _Léoht!_ ” he yelled, and all the candles in the room ignited, as well as a torch on the wall. “Oh, thank the _gods!_ ” he said, and let his head fall back on the thin pillow. “Ow.”

Arthur smirked at Merlin’s new pain. “What about your magic?” he said.

Merlin looked at Arthur and felt awful for how much he’d kept from him. Why did Merlin always feel magical problems were his and his alone? They affected Arthur. They affected everyone. That was the point of magic.

“It’s back,” he said. “I have my magic back, Arthur.”

Arthur smiled, but there was real sadness in his eyes, and Merlin knew he’d caused it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I’d lost it.”

“It’s alright, Merlin. Do you know how you lost it?”

He didn’t know, but he was afraid of the answer. Being without magic was the most terrifying thing he’d ever experienced, and it had happened twice now.

“I wished it away,” Arthur said, his voice a high whisper, and his brows so furrowed the expression looked almost painful. “I wished it away while I was angry with you, and Kara granted my wish.”

Merlin listened as he spoke. At first the idea seemed ludicrous. How could Arthur’s thoughts strip him of his magic? Then he remembered the tournament, and the strange way Kara had known to have Lance give Gwen flowers, and have Sefa think of Merlin’s happiness. It was horrible to think of others’ feelings being used against them. It was a special kind of cruelty she had wielded.

He realized it was lucky that she had granted one of Arthur’s wishes instead of one of his own, since he was always more petulant in his anger than Arthur ever could be.

“I guess I should just be glad you didn’t wish me dead,” Merlin finally said. “Or drawn and quartered. Or skewered over a spit, or—”

“Merlin.”

“Right,” Merlin conceded. “Back to being glad.”

Arthur smiled at him, a fond, gentle smile, and he knew they weren’t done talking. “Good,” Arthur said. “But this doesn’t tell me what was wrong, what’s really been wrong.”

Merlin wished he could disappear into the mattress, and then gasped at the wish. “She can’t still hear our wishes, can she?” he worried aloud.

“Let’s hope not,” Arthur said. “But don’t change the subject.”

He didn’t feel ready to tell Arthur everything, but he knew he had to. Partial confessions had gotten him almost killed. Again.

“I can’t be your court sorcerer, Arthur. I hate it.”

“But, isn’t that all you’ve ever wanted?” Arthur looked confused, but Merlin felt more so.

“Gods no! Who wants to be a court councilor? I was happy where I was! I mean, I could do without mucking out the stables, but I belong with you. I’m _your_ councilor, no one else’s. I tell you when you’re being an arse when no one else is around. Make you a better man and all that.” Merlin nudged Arthur with his elbow.

“Is that right?”

“Yes! I bet you’ve been a worse man these four months with George all up in your trousers. In fact I know you have.”

“George is nowhere near my trousers, Merlin.”

“Maybe that’s been the probl—OW!”

Arthur jabbed Merlin in the ribs, and the pain was like a magical release. It was a sign that they could tussle like they used to, that all was forgiven for now. Merlin didn’t know if he felt more relieved or excited, but either way, he was grabbing Arthur and pulling him onto the other side of the bed.

Unfortunately, this was Merlin’s narrow bunk and not  Arthur’s king-sized wrestling haven, and they almost ended up on the floor.

Instead, they were lying pressed against each other, their faces close. Merlin felt Arthur’s arms settle around him, holding him instead of looking for some space between his ribs to poke for fun. Merlin felt safe and happy, and his magic was ready to purr.  

He let his own arms rest on Arthur’s and caressed Arthur’s shoulder, as he had done in the vaults. Arthur was letting Merlin study him again, his face and his arms and his eyes, his hair that lay in tangled shades of gold across his forehead. He loved looking at Arthur.

“So what is it that you want, Merlin? That’s all I’ve been trying to give you, you know.”

Merlin would have swooned if he wasn’t already lying down. He couldn’t help the smile that grew across his face, probably ridiculously. He thought about what he wanted to say, and his nervousness helped him tamp down his look of bliss.

“I want _this_ ,” he said, and he looked up into Arthur’s eyes, hoping to convey not just his love—Arthur had to know Merlin always loved him—but the ache of his longing. He leaned in to Arthur’s lips, wanting so much to kiss him. He let his fingers move across Arthur’s neck, ever so softly, wanting to feel the tension there, the hint of his breath if it hitched.

A brush of his thumb in the dip of Arthur’s collarbone finally caused the tension to break. Arthur closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth to Merlin’s and licking into his lips. Merlin reciprocated immediately, opening up for the full warmth and desire of Arthur’s lavish kiss.

It was like their own version of a spell, warming Merlin’s magic and sparking new heat between them. He encouraged Arthur to explore all of him, his own hands fisting in Arthur’s tunic, then finding skin beneath to run needy palms and fingers over.

They kept kissing, wet and hungry and completely lost in each other. Merlin could feel Arthur’s arousal through the thin fabric of his trousers. It was pressing hard against Merlin’s own clothed thigh, rubbing now and then to ease its ache. The thought made Merlin’s need for friction all the more intense, and he angled their bodies to let their cocks move against each other, with only the thin fabric between them, Arthur’s hardness rutting against his own.   

He moved his hands over the perfect roundness of Arthur’s arsecheeks, and it was almost too much stimulation, feeling Arthur’s muscles clench, creating the thrusts of friction that made his own body thrill with pleasure.

“Oh, gods,” he said, not knowing what he would do if he couldn’t give even more of himself now. “Arthur.” He let his magic roll in waves over Arthur’s back, shooting tendrils into Arthur’s hair. It wanted to feel all of Arthur, too, all of him wrapped around Merlin.

The sensation must have been strange, and Merlin worried he’d let it go too far when Arthur stopped sucking his way down Merlin’s neck to look at him.

Merlin reigned his magic in, hoping Arthur would resume his ministrations. When he didn’t, Merlin apologized. “Sorry. My magic . . . it wants this, too. I can stop it, though.”

“No,” Arthur said, his voice rough, and his hips still pressing into Merlin’s. “I wasn’t wishing it away. I was . . enjoying it. It was amazing.” Arthur’s expression was full of wonder, but Merlin couldn’t help smiling at the wrecked state of his hair and the desire blown wide in his eyes. He let his magic free, then, to dance over Arthur’s skin.  

A low hum escaped Arthur’s throat, and he was clearly needing more, too. His hand dived between them to unlace Merlin’s trousers. He reached in for Merlin’s cock, already slick at the tip. Merlin felt Arthur wet his hand with it, teasing him with too little attention at the same time. He hitched his hips, trying to thrust into Arthur’s fist, not caring about the loud creaking of the bed frame. Arthur relented, moving his hand in long, firm strokes, his mouth sucking hot, messy kisses into Merlin’s neck.

Merlin tried to reciprocate, to get into Arthur’s trousers, but he was too lost in Arthur’s rhythm over his cock to manage it. He knew he only needed a minute anyway.

He felt his climax tighten all the muscles in his body at once, and he hung suspended for a long moment, aware of nothing but Arthur pulling hot pleasure from him in thick strings of come.  

Merlin fell back into the mattress, limp but moaning shamelessly with pleasure. “Ohh, Arthur.”

His body felt boneless and happy, but Arthur was still rutting against him. He looked down, realizing Arthur was working himself hard in his hand, Merlin’s come helping to smooth the strokes over his fattened cock. It was even bigger than Merlin imagined it would be erect, never having seen it fully hard, and he couldn’t wait to feel it inside him at some point.

He made his eyes as wide as he could, wanting to see every roll of Arthur’s forefinger over his cockhead on the firm, fast upstrokes. Arthur’s moans were coming in stutters, and Merlin was seized with the need to urge on Arthur’s undoing. He directed his magic to lick and suck at Arthur’s bollocks, and Arthur sucked in a breath, then groaned almost immediately after. His seed came shooting through his fist onto Merlin’s stomach. Arthur threw his head back, his hair darkened with sweat and his mouth hanging open. He kept his eyes shut tight as he worked the last strokes from himself, his cock dripping.

Merlin had never seen anything like it in his life, and he knew he would never forget it if he lived for a thousand years.  

 

&&&

That evening, the greatest feast in Camelot’s history was said to be had. The Pendragon red of the banners and tablecloths, the greens of the vegetables and the leaves of the holly branches, even the golden glow from the torches was said to be richer and brighter than ever before, and all because Emrys was truly happy, and his magic was, too. He was vibrating with it, all the druids would swear, and so was his happy king.

When Arthur bequeathed the druid treasures to Iseldir, including the sacred Cup of Life, the air in the room stilled in reverence for the moment Albion’s true peace was won.

The Camelot Yule would become one of the most honored traditions in King Arthur’s court, and the druids were always among the most welcome of guests.

At this particular feast, the wine and mead flowed especially freely, just as the gifts did among all gathered there. Gwen gave each of the knights a new piece of armor she had welded herself in her father’s smithy, and she had added a delicate scarf to Lancelot’s gift, hoping he’d wear it as her tribute.

Gwaine had been more thoughtful than people pretended to expect from him, but all knew he had the softest heart in Camelot. He’d carved wooden figures for all of his friends: horses for the knights, each a little different. He even gave one to Mordred, which made the young man beam with joy and follow Gwaine around for the rest of the night. He’d carved a beautiful rose for Gwen, a unicorn for Merlin, and a dragon for Arthur.

Arthur gave all the servants extra time off in the new year, as well as a bump in their wages. He gave each of his knights and friends, including Iseldir and some other guests, specially made goblets meant to symbolize the peace they had all drunk to that week. Carved on each goblet was a letter or symbol, special to its recipient. On Merlin’s, there was a carved **Æ** , and Merlin looked at Arthur quizzically.  

“The druids call you Emrys, I’m told,” Arthur said, a proud smile on his face. “It’s a lucky thing,” he continued, “or I wouldn’t know what else to do with that cup. Give it to Elyan, I guess,” he teased, shrugging his shoulders.  

Merlin laughed easily at the joke. Arthur had joined their names in a permanent seal. It was like a promise for their bond never to be broken again. “I love it. It’s perfect,” he said, holding the goblet close for inspection. Then he turned his smile on Arthur. “You know, it’s been said that we’re two sides of the same coin.”

“Really? Who says that?”

“Well, the dra—erm, Gaius, for one,” Merlin said, stumbling over his words, hoping Arthur would let the first few slip.

Arthur looked at him, working his jaw as if licking a morsel from between his teeth. The movement had seductive promise, but Merlin knew it also meant a biting retort was coming. He had to redirect the conversation, if at all possible.

“And this goblet, Arthur. It makes us two sides of the same letter!” Merlin said with dramatized excitement. He pressed a quick kiss to Arthur’s cheek. “Did you have one made for yourself?”

Arthur crooked his neck, taking the new bait. “No, Merlin. I think you might have missed the point of the gift exchange entirely. In fact, you haven’t given anyone a single present, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Haven’t I?” Merlin said. “I can fix that, and something else, too.”

He went to get an unmarked goblet from the table by the far wall. He came back to Arthur and held the cup in his hand solemnly. He closed his eyes, searching for a spell within him. He thought of one instantly, but he wanted to impress Arthur, too, so he held his pose a little longer than necessary.

When he opened his eyes, he ran his right hand over the joined initials on his own cup and said “ _Áwrítan eac éadlufu_.” His vision flashed gold. He next ran his hand over the new goblet’s rim. “ _Ágrafan_ _eac éadlufu_.”

He handed the cup with the newly etched **Æ** to Arthur, who looked as charmed as Merlin had hoped.

“What did the spell mean?” Arthur asked, taking the gift and running his fingers fondly over the new seal.

Merlin blushed a little, thinking of the sentimental words, _carved with love_. He looked at their matching goblets and smirked. “ _From one arse to another_.”

Arthur laughed, and called for a servant to pour them fresh mead. “I’m not sure that’s how it works, Merlin, but I’ll drink to it anyway, as long as it’s with you.”

Merlin raised his cup to Arthur’s, and he was sure they looked like a pair of idiots, smiling broadly at each other. When the goblets joined mid-air in a toast, the hall erupted in cheers. They hadn’t even realized they’d had an audience.

“To Arthur and Emrys, and a blessed Yuletide!” Iseldir called out.

The hall so reverberated with the answering chorus, it is said one can still hear their echo amid the castle's ruins: “To Arthur and Emrys, and a blessed Yuletide!”

—The End—    

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover -- Between Battles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582277) by [thewaysinwhich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaysinwhich/pseuds/thewaysinwhich)




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